Snapshots: An Olive Branch
by ramblingonandon
Summary: [The bookend to the story Snapshot: Our Days.] The wounds had aged a little; they're no longer too raw to be touched. But the festering underneath remains and Aramis heals by letting them bleed afresh.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: THANK YOU EVERYONE who left me your thoughts on the last chapter of my previous story, your words are cherished and your opinion matters a lot to me.**

 **To the readers who felt betrayed by the ending of the Snapshots: Our Days, I'm sorry you felt that way, it was not my intention and I feel bad to have disappointed you. But I still would not want to change that last chapter, that's what I stand by and I hope with this new story you will see there was so much for Aramis to deal with that it felt like a disservice to rush it.**

 **Dear FanandCritic, thank you for liking the story and taking the time to share your thoughts. I assure you I did not get tired of the previous story, I cannot. It had been my companion and my journey for five months, I have invested too much heart in it to feel that way; seeing the story end did give me a sense of accomplishment but I was still sad to wrap it up. And I'm sorry that you felt that the ending was rushed, that was not how I wanted it to come off as, because I can tell you this, a lot of thought and time had gone into that last chapter. **

**The entire purpose of the 'hurt' was for them to deal with the fallout and come out with their bonds stronger than ever; which we will be getting to in this story.**

 **It was the timing in the previous story that bugged me.**

 **I say this for all those who felt more comfort was needed in that last chapter; I wanted to descend upon Aramis with a lot of hugs, and cuddles and snuggles, wrap him up in a blanket and never let him go but at that point in the story, with all that he had been through, the Aramis in my mind was not ready to be receptive of the love and care. I believe the first step in healing is to accept that you're hurt and where we were in that story, I thought it was obvious that Aramis was avoiding the problem, he needed time.**

 **Dear GratefulReader, thank you for liking the story and taking the time to share your thoughts. I like your idea of posting a separate mini-piece for that original reaction of Aramis waking up in the hospital, I have some rough drafts - that when I get the time - I might brush up in a short one-shot and post it as a missing scene, thank you for the idea.**

 **So this one is for those dear readers who felt let down by the ending of the previous story, I hope you'll find comfort here AND this is for those dear readers who liked the ending of the previous story, thank you for your kindness, understanding and patience.**

 **Disclaimer:** **I don't own anything recognizable here, not making any money either.**

 **Warning: some foul language**

* * *

 _ **...And I will follow thee to the last gasp, with truth and loyalty - [Shakespeare, 'As you like it']**_

* * *

He woke up a few hours before dawn; from asleep to awake in a change of seconds, like the fuel tank of his sleep had simply bottomed out for the moment. He sat up and rubbed at his face, tugging at his beard and wandering when he would be able to rest for more than a few hours. It had been a routine ever since they had come to the farm a week ago but he had to admit, the change of scenery had done him good. Drawing a hand through his hair he took to his feet and padding across the hardwood floor Athos slipped out of his room.

He went to the one across from his own. Opening the door a crack he slid inside and stopped short at the squeak that erupted underfoot, he had to bite back some choice words in deference to the young occupant of the room. Athos scowled at the toy and kicked it aside; Raoul was an organized child, more so than children of his age, but there was only so much that he could stow away. The speed with which he was gaining possessions thanks to his uncles was alarming, as it was, three toy chests and a wall shelf full of books was not enough to clear the clutter from the room.

Athos was thankful that the boy in the bed did not stir at the noise and picked his way carefully to reach his son. It was in the pale bluish light of the moon from that he noticed the bed was empty. Fear rose unchecked and he had to make a conscious effort to not rush out in search of his son.

He noticed that the four stuffed toys Raoul always carried with him were still there, Pip the penguin that Athos gave him, Plushy the lion from Porthos, Potter the otter from Aramis and NawmNawm the monkey from d'Artagnan were still laid out with their heads on the pillow and the blanket tucked up to their middle. Raoul had taken his time to leave them comfortable.

Athos closed his eyes and sighed.

He turned around and went down the hall to the last bedroom on the right, only to find it empty as well. Closing the door after him he decided to check downstairs.

It was something he had only began to notice a few days back; while all three of his uncles were his playmates Raoul still viewed each of them differently. When he wanted affection and stories he sought out his father but when he was afraid it was Porthos he went to, whether to climb up on his shoulders to get away from big dogs or to press his face in the back of his uncle's knee at the sight of eager strangers. D'Artagnan was his teacher, Athos didn't miss the way Raoul hung on to his every word and when he needed to cry, for some reason known only to the child, he had from the first night chosen Aramis.

Coming down the carpeted stairs Athos made his way to the hall, stopping short in the arched entrance. Aramis was sitting on the windowsill, staring out into the darkness and in his lap was Raoul. The boy clung to the front of his shirt, soaking it in tears that fell in silent snuffles, his quiet sorrow somehow more heartbreaking than childish wails. Aramis' arms tightened around his nephew when the child hiccupped and Athos' eyes met his brother's in the window glass.

It was the longest Aramis had held his gaze in a while.

His friend offered him a sad smile and bent his head to whisper something to the child. Raoul pressed closer in response and shook his head, effectively wiping his nose on Aramis' shirt. As Aramis rubbed the boy's back Athos silently came to sit on the ridiculously comfortable sofa.

For a long while they each held their position as the sky outside grew lighter and the trees beyond materialized out of the darkness, until finally Raoul turned his head to Athos. The sight of red rimmed eyes cut him to the heart but then Aramis whispered something in the boy's ear and Raoul giggled.

Sliding off from the windowsill he moved over to his father

"Think you can sleep now?" Athos asked as he gathered up his son.

"Tired," Raoul curled up against his chest.

It was still a surprise for him the way the warm press of a small body full of trust soothed his nerves. Athos held him close and hummed in response; already the boy was sagging in his hold. He looked up as Aramis got to his feet.

"There's plenty of room for all of us," Athos nodded to the empty space beside him.

It stung when Aramis shook his head.

"I have to get ready; will be going around the farm with Senor Alvaro," he said.

"It's not even dawn,"

"It will be soon enough," Aramis said as he moved towards the stairs, "I'll see you in the evening,"

Athos watched him until he couldn't. He had assumed that following Aramis to Spain would at least lessen the distance between them, but it was there, more painfully evident with them being in the same room. His arms tightened around his son and Athos blinked back the moisture in his eyes. Something would have to give, and soon; or Athos feared their brotherhood may not survive.

* * *

He did not like the heat; it was fun for the first two hours after they landed, after that Porthos simply hated it. He shifted in the wooden seat of the swing in the porch and got jabbed by a raised nail head for his efforts. The fan above him seemed to be trying its best to make the hot air budge but the only way it moved was in gusts of burning blows that usually stung like a slap to the face.

Porthos stared down at the lemonade in his hand and wondered who was sweating more, him or the rapidly warming glass. He swirled the contents in it and received a timid clink from the almost melted ice cubes.

He frowned.

This was not how he had imagined vacation to be. For him, Athos and Aramis their lives they had always orbited around the other two, they were used to living in each others' pockets, they reveled in it; but being stuck under the same roof while evading each other was tiring. With the house staff bustling about there wasn't even the distraction of chores to lift the irritation off of Porthos. It didn't help his mood either when Constance and d'Artagnan smuggled Raoul over to one of the guest houses where Senor Alvaro was staying with his family.

They were going to spend the day by the pool.

The day that was almost over now, Porthos checked his watch, it was more than half way over at least and he still hadn't laid eyes on Aramis. Setting the glass on the table between them Porthos looked to Athos who was sitting in the chair, wearing a hat and sunglasses and still looking a bit pink on the cheeks above his beard.

"It's not working," Porthos said, "we came all this way and it's still like we're on different planets."

"I know," Athos took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes, he picked at the seal of the water bottle in his lap and when his gaze settled on Porthos it held a hint of desperation, "I don't know what to do."

Porthos could not face the despair that he knew was mirrored in his own face. Instead he turned away to watch the pots of baby citrus trees set in a neat line by the far wall, basking in the heat of the sun that had finally began its slow descent in the sky. His eyes widened at the sight of the man hurrying along the shade of the building. Senor Alvaro smiled when he saw the two of them sitting in the porch.

"Senor Porthos! I assumed you'd wish to be inside until the evening fully sets in," he said.

"I was waiting for you actually," Porthos said as he got up from the swing.

"Me?"

"Aramis went with you," Athos was out of his chair, the plastic of the water bottle protesting audibly under the force of his grip, "he left at dawn, I saw him leave."

Senor Alvaro looked from one man to the other and Porthos did not like the confusion that came on his face. The man shook his head at them.

"He hasn't been with me," Senor Alvaro said.

Porthos drew a hand through his curls, the other tightening into a fist even as he stamped down on the urge to hit something. If Aramis wasn't with them and if he hadn't been with Senor Alvaro then there was only one place he was likely to be. And had been there the entire morning Porthos realized, he cursed under his breath as fear sparked in his chest.

"He can't be that stupid," Athos looked to him.

"I'm not waiting here to find out," Porthos moved past a surprised Senor Alvaro and crossed the sprawling lawn to get to the stables, Athos at his heels.

The two men rushing in startled the stable boy lounging on the hay bales and the lad nearly fell flat on his face in his hurry to get up. The horses scraped the ground in anxiousness, sensing the urgency of the people around them.

"He didn't take a horse," Athos said.

"See how stupid he can be," Porthos groaned.

The boy was moving too slowly for his liking and plucking him up by the back of his shirt, Porthos deposited him aside. He saddled up his own horse as Athos did the same for his, much to the despair of the boy. They left him wringing his hands as they guided the horses away from the lawns, wove through the small grove of mandarin trees and picked up the riding trail on the other side instead of following it from the start and losing precious minutes.

Soon the neat rows of olive trees were flying by on both sides and Porthos felt a twinge of guilt for the animal carrying him; it was too hot for any living creature to be out under the sky. His mind raced ahead to his friend who had apparently been out there all day.

His concern fueled the anger blazing in the pit of his stomach. What had that idiot been thinking?

Porthos' slowed the horse until it came to a stop beside Athos' panting beast. Together they looked up at the scraggly hill that was mostly rocks, loose earth and bushes you did not want to brush against – and of course olive trees Porthos mused, not cultivated yet stubbornly dotting the hillside.

"We'll have to take it slow," Athos said as he turned his horse around.

They followed the beaten dirt path up the hill at as quick a trot as they could. It was not fast enough as far as Porthos was concerned, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and scowled. They had been this way once before and he knew their friend visited here often. But he had never stayed up there this long.

By the time they rounded the shoulder and the brow of the hill came into view, the horses were frothing at the mouth. Up ahead on the ledge just shy of the hilltop, leaning back against the twisty silver bark of an old olive tree, next to the grave of his mother, was Aramis.

* * *

Three things he noticed immediately, the frizzy canopy of thin leaves over Aramis provided little to no shade, one of Aramis' hands was clutching the soil of his mother's grave beside him and his other one held a bottle of wine that was nearly empty. Athos only had time to catch the reins Porthos threw at him before the big man was out of the saddle and marching towards their friend.

Many a brave men had fled at the sight of the expression that was on Porthos' face and Athos hurried after him to stop the impending wreck he could see unfolding already.

"Wait! Porthos!" he dropped the reins and made a dash forwards.

Before he could reach them, Porthos had bent down and hauled Aramis up by the scruff of his shirt.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He shook him hard; the bottle of wine fell from Aramis' fingers and rolled away, leaving a red trickle in its wake.

Porthos didn't even glance at it and Athos squeezed his shoulder in a warning before he regarded their brother, who had yet to make a move to dislodge himself from the grip that was keeping him on his toes.

"What are you doing out here? What're you running from Aramis?" Porthos shook him again.

A slow smile pulled at Aramis' lips, full of challenge and arrogance and a coldness that had never before been directed at them; Athos closed his eyes against it. His fingers dug into Porthos' shoulder as he braced himself for the blow.

"Take a guess Porthos," Aramis said, "what does this farmhouse and London had in common?"

Athos was glad he was holding onto his friend, he had a feeling he would have reeled back at the words. He didn't see Porthos let go of Aramis but he did feel him shift back. It forced him to open his eyes and face the truth that was finally out.

"Why?" Athos found the question slip out of its own violation.

Aramis' eyes turned to him and for the first time in their lives Athos was faced with the steely shutters that blocked out the world from reaching the kind soul he knew resided beyond the grim expression.

"Let me put it rationally," Aramis smirked, "better to leave then be left behind, that makes sense for you Athos?"

"When did we…?" Athos stopped short at the realization.

He flinched when Aramis laughed; it was a brittle dry sound that echoed in the rough terrain, bouncing off rocks and bushes like a shower of loose pebbles.

"You remember now?" Aramis asked, "funny how insignificant it was for you to forget it. I had just told you that I felt you didn't trust me and you walked out on me."

Aramis' voice had lowered at the end of his declaration and he looked to Porthos.

"You all walked out," it was lower still.

The sizzling breeze rustled the sparse greenery and kicked up swirls of dust.

Athos had known it would come back to haunt him, he had wondered a number of times if things had been different had they let Aramis come with them. He let his gaze wander over to the perfect rows of olive trees below, the grove of mandarin trees beyond and the speck of red roofed building where they had come chasing their brother, and he had to wonder if this all could have been prevented by that one decision.

Aramis would have had the vantage point to catch M'Lady before she had ambushed them, he would have seen Charon before he had managed to frame Porthos for murder, d'Artagnan might not have been shot, they may not have been trapped in that fire and the list of 'what if's' went on for Athos. He had no answer but what he had then.

"You were hurt Aramis, I didn't want you getting injured anymore," he said.

Those brown eyes softened.

"I know," Aramis said and turned away from him.

Athos looked to Porthos and found him glaring at the sweat soaked back turned to them. There was a glint in his dark eyes that had Athos stepping in his way. But the big man dodged his preemptive hold with easy quick reflexes and grabbing Aramis by the shoulder swung him around to face them.

"We came after you," he growled, "we came after you all the way to Spain,"

"I didn't ask you to,"

"You bloody ungrateful, selfish git!" Porthos shoved him back and Aramis hit the tree trunk behind him.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the younger man launched forwards. Athos could only watch as Porthos turned and grabbed the rushing Aramis in a headlock; but the other man shifted his torso and slid his shoulder against the big man's chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt at the other side he hooked Porthos' leg from behind and tipped back.

The two of them hit the ground hard.

Porthos and Aramis lay on their backs, panting under the burning sun.

"I didn't ask you to," Aramis told the sky.

Porthos turned on his side and regarded him grimly.

"You didn't have to," he said.

Athos grabbed Porthos by the forearm and heaved him to sit up before turning to Aramis. It hurt to have him ignore the gesture and roll over to push himself back up. He made a half hearted attempt to dust off his shirt but stopped short with his eyes clenched shut.

Pulling his hand back from just shy of touching him, Athos forced himself to watch as the other man swayed a little where he stood. Heat exposure and drunk, Athos' mind supplied him as he read the signs of the dangerous combination.

"Why don't we discuss this back at the farmhouse?" he asked.

"Why?" Aramis asked, "Why are you here?"

"In case you didn't notice we came to collect you out of this heat," Porthos wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

"Why are you here?" Aramis waved his arms around, his voice rising, "Why are you here in Spain? Why did you come after me?"

This was the man who had gone around the city collecting him and Porthos when he could have been studying or enjoying with his friends from the medical college, the man who stayed with Athos as he purged himself after drinking when he should have been in his class, the man who was patching up Porthos when he should have been catching up on some well deserved sleep, Athos could not understand how he could even ask them this question.

He looked from Porthos to Aramis.

"Where else would we be?" Athos asked.

Confusion drew his features into a frown.

"I don't know, living your life like you were when I was in prison," Aramis shrugged and turned his head to regard the expanse beyond the hill, almost as if he was afraid to catch their gaze.

It was like watching his nine year old self, after he had tackled Rochefort to the ground in his fury, confessing to them in private that he hadn't actually understood the insult Rochefort had thrown at Porthos. With a shake of his head Athos risked getting closer to the man and held him by the shoulders, infinitely grateful that he was not shoved off.

"It was an act Aramis," he said, "We didn't want you worried for us while you were locked up in there."

The frown deepened and he looked to Porthos who had stepped closer as well.

"You were just out of the hospital, scared out of your mind about us and they were taking you away," Porthos shook his head, "we hoped to ease your mind that we were all happy and safe."

"You weren't?" it was barely above a whisper.

Porthos grasped Aramis by the back of his neck.

"We were worried sick about you," he said.

"But we didn't want you to see that," Athos nodded, "we didn't want anything more to add to the list of all that was troubling you."

He hoped they were getting through and Athos held his breath as Aramis contemplated the ground between the three of them. When he looked up it was to stare past them and although he nodded, Aramis still stepped back and away from their reach, he was slipping away, again.

"Aramis…"

"I get it," he said, "I get it, I'm just going back now,"

"You're not walking back," Porthos went after him, "we're taking the horses,"

Realizing that he had not secured the animals, Athos looked around in panic only to find the two beasts loitering under the olive tree, as if trying to somehow set themselves in the meager shade. He looked back at his friends and it was in that moment he knew that Aramis was going to run.

* * *

He was almost within an arm's distance when his stance shifted, a slight bend forwards and a bounce in his step and reading the signs Porthos grabbed Aramis by the waist before he could sprint ahead. Athos reached them even as the other man wriggled to get out of Porthos' hold, it seemed Aramis had forgotten all his training in a moment of rage.

"Let me go!" Aramis yelled at them, "Let me go!"

"Never," Athos grabbed him by an arm.

"Not ever," Porthos grabbed him by the other arm.

"LET ME GO!"

They dragged him back, kicking and screaming under the skimpy shade of the old olive tree, plopping him there on the ground but still not releasing him. Porthos hit his knees beside him as Athos went down on the other side, with each putting an arm around his shoulders and his waist they pinned him between the two of them.

"Go away! Just let me be!" Aramis struggled, panting hard, "Let me go!"

"We're not doing it 'Mis," Porthos shook his head.

"No more running away," Athos said.

They held him tighter as his struggle increased and Porthos wished with all his heart that his brother would just stop, stop fighting them, stop running from them, just stop and let them be there for him. He heard rather then saw the elbow that clipped Athos in the face.

The man hissed but it was Aramis who went completely still in their grip.

Porthos looked over his head to the blood trickling down Athos' chin and hadn't the chance to hold back Aramis as he surged towards Athos.

"I'm sorry Athos, I'm sorry, please," he grabbed his friend's face in both his hands, eyes wide in terror, "please don't die, don't die,"

Porthos felt a jab of pain in his chest at the blatant imploring in his brother's voice and had to blink away the sudden wetness in his eyes. He gently eased his friend back from Athos when Aramis' breathing took on a harsh edge. Only Aramis would not let go of Athos' shirt.

"Please don't die,"

"He's not dying 'Mis," Porthos rubbed his back, "he's alright, no one's dying,"

Athos clasped the hand still clutching his shirt and pressed it flat over his heart. Porthos saw the way Aramis' eyes slid from the blood on his face to their hands on his brother's chest.

"Not dying Aramis," Athos said, "feel that?"

Porthos could see the fingers curling and winced at the sting he imagined Athos must have felt, but his friend didn't even twitch. His eyes were steady as they remained on Aramis who it was seemed was trying to hold Athos' heartbeat itself.

"I may not have mastered medical knowledge but I'm sure I won't die of a split lip," Athos smiled at them.

Aramis still stared at his hand.

Porthos shifted on the ground and pulled his brother closer, letting him rest his side against his broad chest. He pressed his chin over the mop of sweat soaked hair and rubbed Aramis back in circles.

"Not dead 'Mis, and not dying either," he murmured.

He looked to Athos for help when no answer was forthcoming from the man between them. His friend ducked so that he could be at level with the scared brown eyes and offered him a smile again.

"We're here Aramis and we're not leaving you," Athos said.

Aramis nodded and Porthos felt the shudder pass through him. His brother grabbed Athos' wrist and tugged him closer as he let himself sag against Porthos.

* * *

He was exhausted, his head was pounding, his throat was scratchy and his tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth. But everything fell away in the presence of his brothers that surrounded him completely for the moment. Nothing mattered but the weight of Porthos' head on his, the calming reassurance of his large hand at his back and nothing mattered but Athos' grip at the back of his neck, the grounding safety of his hand on his thigh.

"Aramis? Aramis?" someone was tapping his face, "open your eyes,"

He didn't want to, his world was finally getting back its equilibrium and Aramis savored it moving onto an even keel.

" 'Mis? You have to stay awake," Porthos' voice rumbled against his ear.

He hummed in response, not really wanting to heed the words. It was rare these days for him to feel this secure, like he wasn't about to be snagged by an unexpected undercurrent and pulled down. The sense that he could let down his guard; that his brothers' would watch out for him, was overwhelming and Aramis wanted to stay in this moment.

"He's fading," Porthos shifted to hold him up the shoulders.

Aramis flinched at the missing contact and forced his eyes open.

"I think I dropped the bottle of water I had with me, let's just get back" Athos made to stand up.

It was a reflex borne of his fears in the last months and Aramis grabbed a fistful of Porthos' shirt while he snagged Athos' sleeve before the man could completely get back to his feet. He would have cried if he had the moisture to spare.

"Don't leave me please," it ripped out of his chest in a hoarse whisper.

He couldn't look either of them in the face, Aramis was sure that the heat crawling up his neck had nothing to do with the scorching sun. He hadn't the chance to dwell on it as Athos pulled him in for an embrace and he suddenly found his face pressed against his brother's shoulder.

"We can't leave you," Athos' voice was unusually thick, "you idiot, it's not possible,"

And then Porthos was pulling them both in a hug.

"We're not leaving you 'Mis, that's what we've been trying to tell you," he said.

Aramis shivered; it felt like he had been in a free-fall, watching the ground rushing up to meet him and knowing that when he would collide with it he would shatter. Not just break but explode into a million pieces upon impact and scatter - scatter and loose himself completely.

He shivered.

The arms around him tightened and something shifted in his soul, slid in place and locked in.

His breath hitched.

He was caught.

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Tissue warning , more of a suggestion, you might not need it but I'm putting it here because writing this chapter left me emotionally exhausted and I couldn't complete it in one sitting. There were too many points where I had to break away. So well, discretion is advised.**

* * *

He squinted against the shimmer of sunlight over water but didn't dare take his eyes off the giggling torpedo splashing headlong towards him. How the boy was not tipping out of the inflated tube around his waist was a mystery to d'Artagnan, one that he couldn't ponder over as Raoul reached out to him with a laugh.

"Didya see that Unca Charles? Did you see me? I made it all the way round!" the boy waved about his arms in a rare show of bouncy excitement, nearly catching the young man in the face with the brightly coloured inflated armbands.

"I saw that buddy," d'Artagnan dodged the overblown polyester and wiped the dark hair out of the boy's eyes, "you'll be a pro in no time."

"Like you?" there was awe in those green eyes and d'Artagnan felt heat rising to his face that had nothing to do with the sweltering day. He rubbed the back of his neck and grinned down at the boy.

"You'll be better," he said.

Raoul's eyes grew rounder and d'Artagnan had to wonder if this was once the face of his mentor over two decades ago, could Athos have possibly looked up to someone like that. He stowed away the thought to wheedle Porthos over it.

"Really?" the boy grinned wide.

"Maybe even better than your Dad," d'Artagnan threw in, pleased to see the suddenly serious expression that came on the small face.

Raoul shook his head with a sobriety far from his age then declared something only a child could.

"No one is better than my Dad," he said.

The sliding of glass doors caught their attention before d'Artagnan could reply to that and both of them grinned as Constance stepped out, adjusting her straw hat with one hand while her other carried a plate of sandwiches.

"I thought I told you two to come in hours ago," she said as she perched on the border of the pool and dipped her feet in the water.

D'Artagnan grabbed the boy under the arms and plopped him on the edge of the pool beside his fiancé.

"We got caught up," he said, "this one here made it around the pool all by himself."

Constance smiled as she reached back and snagged a towel from the pool chair. She wrapped it around the boy's shoulder and grinned.

"You learn fast don't you?" she placed a smaller towel on his head and began drying his hair.

The child squeaked and managed to pull his face out of the folds. Raoul smiled up at Constance and shrugged.

"Uncle Charles makes it easy to learn," he said.

The proud look from Constance had d'Artagnan looking away, he was pretty sure she could see his ears turning red. Trying to avoid the teasing he knew was coming his way, he focused on the activity going on beyond the glass doors. His gaze flicked from the excited children to their father as he entered the room.

It dawned on d'Artagnan that if Senor Alvaro was home, so would be Aramis. He had assumed that his brothers would join them after collecting their wayward friend. Their absence pricked at the worry lurking at the back of his mind and he was silently grateful when the other man came out to greet them.

"The others aren't coming?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Your friends have gone out to look for Aramis," Senor Alvaro frowned, "and before you ask, no, he hadn't been with me."

That prick of worry became a rock dropping down his stomach and d'Artagnan hurried out of the water, going for his mobile phone. He called each one of his brothers in turn, cursing silently under his breath when no one picked up.

"Did they say where they were going?" he asked.

Senor Alvaro shook his head before brightening abruptly.

"But they did seem to know where Aramis was," he said, "they took off before I could I ask where."

He paused halfway while he pulled on his shirt, there was one place Aramis would likely be, where he usually went to alone but d'Artagnan couldn't imagine him staying out up there all day. With a shake of his head he got himself dressed and turned to Constance.

"I think I should check on them," he said.

Constance was about to offer to come with him, he could read it in her expression before she could form the words but he shook his head.

"You both enjoy the madness in there," he nodded towards the four children that were chasing each other round the furniture and got out of the way in time before they made a mad dash for the pool, their mother following with a trey of snacks.

As Constance went to help Senora Rosa, d'Artagnan slipped out into the garden beyond and hurried over the path to the main building. He toyed with the idea of going after the other three but decided against it, it wouldn't do to have all of them scattered.

He had been pacing in the shadow of the porch for over an hour when he heard the clatter of hooves before the two horses came in sight. Paying no mind to the stable boy who had come out at the sound of approaching riders, d'Artagnan jogged up to meet his brothers.

Athos dismounted first then turned to Porthos who was on the other horse, sitting behind Aramis, holding him up by the arm that was wrapped across the younger man's chest. Aramis' head was dipped low, his chin resting on the edge of Porthos' arm.

"Is he alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

"d'Art?" Aramis' head shot up; smacking Porthos in the face with the back of his head. The big man cursed roundly as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"P'thos?" Aramis tried to turn around.

"Quit moving," Porthos held him tighter, "you're gonna fall off the saddle,"

Aramis stilled and stared at the neck of the horse, blinking as though surprised to find himself situated atop the animal.

"Come here," Athos reached out to help his befuddled brother out of the saddle.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut at the movement and held onto Athos' shoulder even as he came to stand. D'Artagnan stepped up to steady the man when he swayed, his own eyes widening at the sight of dust staining the clothes of his brothers and the tiny red flecks dried on Athos' shirt .

"Some things needed to be aired," Athos answered his unasked question.

Aramis' smile was soft and fleeting when he met d'Artagnan's gaze. His eyes were slightly glazed over and creased at the corners as though trying to ward off pain, but they were no longer evading.

"I stopped," Aramis said, "I was stopped,"

Vague as it was d'Artagnan was surprised how much it made sense to him. He glanced to the two men who had come to flank Aramis on either side before his eyes returned to the man in front of him. Everything wasn't right, not yet, but it was a start.

"You have no idea how happy that makes me," d'Artagnan told his friend.

He hadn't expected Aramis to reach across the small distance between them and pull him in an embrace. The younger of the two froze in surprise.

It had been the norm, before, before everything went into a tailspin. Aramis cuffing him upside the head, throwing an arm across his shoulders or leaning against him had been a common occurrence that he had only missed when his brother had pulled away.

This spontaneous embrace was like meeting his friend after months of absence.

D'Artagnan swallowed thickly, his eyes burning with sudden moisture, and wrapped his arms around Aramis in return; clutching the back of sweat soaked shirt in a bruising grip.

"I've missed you brother," he said.

* * *

He eased down in the chair, teeth clenched against the pain beating with the pulse in his head. The beep of the air conditioner switching on promised relief and he tried not to cringe when his chair was tugged to be shifted into the range of the cool air.

"Better?" Porthos asked.

"Much," he offered his friend a tight smile.

Porthos crouched before him, one hand coming to rest on Aramis' knee and the other on his arm as he studied his friend.

"Doesn't look like it," he said.

Aramis felt the tension in the joints of his shoulders melt at the concern in those dark eyes focused on him. He patted the large hand on his arm even as he took the glass d'Artagnan offered him. He drank the liquid in one go, not even realizing what it tasted like. It was wet and tepid and that was enough for his parched throat.

The younger man immediately refilled the glass and Aramis couldn't drain it fast enough; a whine of protest escaped him when the liquid was pulled out of his reach.

"You'll get sick drinking like that," Athos held the glass away.

There was truth in those words but that didn't mean he had to like it. Aramis licked his lips, flinching when he hit the raw spots that were cracked. Toeing off his shoes he let his legs sprawl before him and rested his head back against the edge of the backrest. Pulling in a steadying breath, he covered his sore eyes with his hand.

"I knew riding a horse was a bad idea," Aramis said, "I can still feel the pulse of their hooves beating against my head."

"That would be the wine," Porthos supplied as he pulled away the hand from his eyes and placed a folded damp cloth on them instead.

Aramis hummed in appreciation.

"And the heat," Athos added as he handed him back the glass.

Using the damp cloth to wipe his face, Aramis placed it on the back of his neck before he took a mouthful from the glass. He had to use some deep reserve of self-restraint to not gulp it all down, not with Athos glaring at him from where he stood beside him.

This time around he actually tasted the rehydration salts d'Artagnan had mixed in the water.

"That's awful," he said.

"You're welcome," d'Artagnan grinned.

Refraining from rolling his eyes in deference to his headache, Aramis settled on a glare instead and downed the rest of the contents of the glass. He let his head drop back again and pressed the inner corner of his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing behind them.

He could still see the scorching sunlight on the back of his eyelids, it ebbed and flowed, glowing and flashing against the darkness…

… _.the firelight ripples, the glow moves and shifts, subtle but there like an ocean current. He can see it in the dip of the shadows and in the flickering sparks of brightness. The roof beams crash to the ground and the spray of embers makes his brothers change direction._

 _He can't move._

 _They hold onto each other as they stumble to the door. A tug, a shove, it won't budge. They are trying to break it open, tripping over their feet before hitting the thick wood that would not give way._

 _Once,_

 _Twice._

 _His throat is dry like he is the one breathing in the smoke._

 _They're giving up, they're sliding down and the door is still closed. Aramis reaches out, he has to help them, he has to open that door…._

…A grip on his shoulder stopped him.

Aramis frowned when he found himself face to face with Athos and beyond him was Porthos who had grasped his hand. He looked from one man to the other and tried to hold on to the present. The fear was too close to the surface, it was trailing gooseflesh on his skin and the helplessness was a sour taste in his mouth.

He felt Athos' hand gently turning his face to catch his eyes.

"What's wrong Aramis?" he asked.

"The door Athos, it won't open," it unclogged from his throat and slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

* * *

He frowned when Aramis' hand shook as he raised it again to press the corners of his eyes. Out of the sunlight and drained of his fight his friend looked worse, as if the exhaustion at his heels had finally caught up with him and run him over.

Porthos knew he was hovering but he could not pull his gaze away from the man who was draped limp over the chair like a wet noodle. The image of Aramis asking them not to leave him was like a raw wound in his chest, he simply wanted to wipe that fear out of his brother's mind.

Despite his scrutiny he startled when Aramis gasped and surged to his feet, hand outstretched. Athos grabbed their friend by the shoulder lest he tumbled forward and Porthos held onto the seeking hand. Aramis had that faraway look in his eyes that had been common during his days at the hospital, his breaths coming shallow and choppy as he shook his head.

Athos placed a hand on the side his face and turned it slowly to meet the hazy brown eyes.

"What's wrong Aramis?" he asked.

A sound like a chocked sob escaped from the man as his fingers tightened around Porthos' hand.

"The door Athos, it won't open," Aramis said.

It hit him like a kick to the gut and Porthos clutched his friend's hand tight enough to feel the bones shift. But Aramis didn't even flinch; he pulled in a shuddering breath and buried his free hand in his hair, pulling at the loose curls. Tears clung to his eyelashes as he blinked and bit his lower lip.

"I can't un-see it," Aramis pulled away his hand from Porthos and clenched it in a fist by his side, "Every damn time, it just sneaks up – and I can't – I couldn't do anything –"

Porthos met Athos' gaze and saw his own horror reflected in his face. They hadn't told anyone about the details of that fire, if both of them had tended to leave the doors open of the rooms they occupied, if the click of a door lock made them sit straighter, none had noticed it besides the two of them.

"You were trapped – and I couldn't – couldn't help –" Aramis groaned as he rubbed at his chest and stumbled to sit on the edge of his bed, one hand still pulling at his hair.

It was d'Artagnan who stepped up to sit next to the man. Porthos realized his feet were suddenly too heavy to move and he glanced back to Athos to find him rooted to the spot. Their youngest rubbed Aramis' back as the man leaned on his fisted hands and bent forward in an effort to catch a breath.

"It's over Aramis, we're here, were safe," d'Artagnan murmured, "we're all here, we're all safe."

Porthos wondered if the younger man even realized that he had taken up the litany that he had often used to soothe a confused Aramis in his early days of recovery, days that left their brother wondering about reality where only d'Artagnan had been his proof of the truth. Porthos closed his eyes as a realization cut him to the quick; they had never asked Aramis why he was so convinced about their deaths.

Aramis nodded slowly, his hands fisted tight at his side and buried at the edge of the mattress he was perched on.

"I'm fine," he said quietly, "it passes; it's alright."

"It passes?" Athos' voice was sharp, "Are you telling me this had happened before?"

Aramis' small nod to the floor had Porthos clenching his teeth.

"How many times?" Athos demanded.

Aramis shrugged a shoulder and Porthos felt a lump rising to his throat. He couldn't believe how far apart they had drifted.

"Why did you not –?"

"Athos," d'Artagnan's soft reprimand stopped the inquiry.

Porthos saw the shake of his head that d'Artagnan sent their way before his eyes turned pointedly over to Aramis. The big man felt his breath hitch at the slumped shoulders and the dipped head that met his gaze; it was almost as if Aramis wanted to disappear.

Crossing the short distance between them Porthos sat down on his other side and wrapped his arm around the hunched shoulders. He took Aramis' hand by the wrist, swiping the pad of his thumb over the racing pulse in an effort to ease open the painfully clenched fist.

"We just wish you'd told us," his said softly.

"I didn't want you to – be reminded of it," Aramis breathed out.

"So you decided to hide the fact that you were having panic attacks?" Athos raised a brow.

Aramis' head shot up, eyes flashing. The change was swift enough to leave Porthos' head spinning and to his dismay Athos was meeting the challenging glare with his own.

"I had it under control,"

"Clearly,"

"How do you even know about the door?" Porthos had to ask.

Aramis closed his eyes with a grimace, swallowing a few times before he cleared his throat.

"There were cameras at the warehouse," he said, "after Senior – he had brought her there – after he –"

Porthos' arm tightened around his friend who shook his head as if trying to dislodge the image from his mind. He was about to tell him to forget about it when Athos crouched before the quivering man.

"You have to say it Aramis," his voice was infinitely gentle.

Their friend jerked his head like he was warding off an irritating housefly. Porthos saw the silent plea to let it go that d'Artagnan was sending the two of them, his hand clenched in a fist at the back of Aramis' shirt and wet eyes begging them to back off.

"Who did he have with him Aramis? What did he do?" Athos' voice was soft yet firm.

"Isabelle," it was wrangled out of his throat in a low groan, "he had Isabelle with him and he murdered her to punish me,"

Aramis swayed where he sat; head down and eyes clenched shut as he gulped air like he was drowning.

"And how did you know about us?" Athos prodded.

"He had a laptop," those brown eyes opened and stared past Athos, "it was my fault because I did not let him frame Porthos for murder,"

He remembered, Porthos could never forget the cold violence in his brother when had threatened Officer Poupart. His arm tightened reflexively around Aramis but the man had stilled, eerily so.

"I saw you two trapped in there. Saw you struggle. Saw you give in. Saw you minutes away from being burned alive," his head dropped again, voice coming out hoarse, "I couldn't do anything to help you and it was all my fault."

For long minutes no one spoke. The guilt and anguish and sheer helplessness that rolled off of Aramis thickened the air around them so much that Porthos had to audibly inhale in order to make his lungs work. There was so much he wanted to say it left his mind blank, Porthos searched to find words as he tried to unblock his throat.

It was Athos who reached up and grasped the side of Aramis' neck, easing his head up. The younger man had drawn blood from where he was biting his lip.

"Aramis look at me," Athos waited until his demand was met, "We are alive and what happened was not in any way your fault."

Although he nodded Porthos had a feeling the man wouldn't be so easily convinced. His attention was drawn to their youngest when d'Artagnan sniffed loudly and edged closer to Aramis.

"At least now I know why you were so convinced about their deaths," he said thickly.

The man between them stiffened imperceptibly.

" 'Mis?" Porthos did not like the way colour suddenly leeched from his brother's face, " 'Mis what is it?""

"It wasn't that," Aramis said, "after I – I went to the warehouse and I saw the – after the fire they rolled out – I saw the body bags –" he swallowed convulsively.

Aramis shot up to his feet and staggered out of their reach, for a second Porthos feared he was running away but then he saw the way his brother had his hand clasped over his mouth. Before any of them could react Aramis had stumbled out of the room and dashed to the bathroom.

The sound of his violent retching echoed out to them.

* * *

The lights were dimmed, the curtains drawn and even if the shower hadn't really helped with the wiped out quivering in his very bones at least he was clean. The other two had gone off to shower and change and he knew soon they'd be descending on him with food to make up for the meals he had missed. For now Aramis relished the comfortable haze he was floating in and frowned when he was poked in the side.

"Drink," d'Artagnan spoke from beside him.

Aramis obliged, automatically bringing the glass in his hand to his lips and taking a sip to appease his self-appointed nanny. He offered a sideways glare to the younger man who offered him an unrepentant smile.

"I think I'm intelligent enough to know that I have to drink to keep hydrated," he said.

D'Artagnan nodded as he squirmed against the pillow at his back. The two of them were sitting up against the headboard of Aramis' bed, legs outstretched and pretending to watch the movie the younger man had playing on his laptop.

Another poke;

"Drink,"

"You are the worst mother-hen there is,"

"Should I sic Constance on you?" d'Artagnan said, "I'm sure she'll find a way to lay her hands on an IV to get you to take fluids,"

Aramis huffed and straightened a bit, his sides were aching from the dry heaving that had finally stopped about half an hour ago. He took the ordered sip of water and regarded the younger man, noting the way d'Artagnan was pointedly avoiding looking his way.

He pulled his legs up and balanced the glass on his knee.

"I wanted to apologize," said Aramis.

"Don't apologize, just drink,"

"Not for that," Aramis placed the glass on the bedside table and turned his head to fully face his young friend, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you found out about Athos' and Porthos' deaths."

D'Artagnan stilled.

"I'm sorry that you had to face that alone."

D'Artagnan slammed the laptop shut and glared at him.

"You want to apologize? What if I hadn't woken up when I did?" d'Artagnan said, "What if we never got to you on time? You could have died Aramis, bled out in your father's study. They weren't dead but you could've been."

Aramis looked his young friend in the eye, if ever there was a person to whom he owed an explanation of those events it was him.

"I knew about that possibility when I went down that road," he replied honestly.

"When you were sure they were dead, did you want to follow them Aramis?" d'Artagnan pinned him with his gaze.

He had to admit to himself, the brashness of his friend was a relief. Aramis knew if there was to be a chance of salvaging what they had, he would have to come clean. He did not look away from the hard dark eyes boring into him.

"It wasn't about if I wanted to," Aramis said, "I was a dead man walking and I was at peace with it."

D'Artagnan nodded, pursed his lips and looked away but not before Aramis could miss the wet sheen over his eyes. The way the younger man sat up and away from the headboard, crossing his legs and hunching over the laptop in his grasp broke something in Aramis. It was painful to watch the kid in pain and he found himself matching the younger man's shift in position to sit shoulder to shoulder with him.

"Do you remember what I told you about people like Marsac and I?" Aramis asked, "That we were different, we needed someone to light our way?"

A jerky nod was the only reply.

"Marsac lost his way after SAVOY and I was left in the dark with Athos and Porthos gone," Aramis forced himself to keep his thoughts steady; it wouldn't do to fall through the cracks that littered his mind, not at the moment. He dared not glance at the younger man who had tensed beside him and went on.

"I'm not condoning our actions but I want you to know how we got to that point," he said, "Athos and Porthos were gone–"

"And what about me?" d'Artagnan turned to him with red rimmed eyes, "Did you ever think that if they were truly dead that I would wake up in the morning in a world where none of you were alive? Did you consider the possibility that I may need you? Wasn't I worth it for you stick around?"

Aramis took a deep breath and met the accusing glare evenly.

"Athos and Porthos were gone but you weren't," he picked up his thought, "Senior had crossed a line, he was taking out the people in my life, my only thought was to take him out before he got to anyone else. You were in the crosshairs, so was Constance and Lemay and –"

D'Artagnan started to speak but Aramis shook his head.

"When I left, you were supposed to sleep through the night and by morning more people would have lost their lives," he looked down at his hands in his lap, "I saw no other way except the one I took to save everyone. If I knew Porthos and Athos were alive I might not have chosen that path. "

He looked up to meet his brother's gaze.

"I wasn't thinking straight d'Artagnan," Aramis said, "I had lost my way with those two gone but I didn't forget where I was coming from."

He hoped with all his heart that his friend could see that he mattered, that he hadn't stopped thinking about their youngest even in that pit of despair. Aramis hoped d'Artagnan could see that he had been the light he was willing to die for to keep it from extinguishing.

The arms that were suddenly thrown around his neck were a surprise but the sob muffled against his shoulder wasn't. D'Artagnan held him tightly, soaking his shirt with tears that fell hard and fast.

"Don't ever do that again Aramis, it was horrible," he choked out, "we didn't even know how bad you were hurt, and there was so much blood and then you heart stopped, you stupid idiot you died!"

"Still here d'Art," Aramis held boy flush against him, "I'm still alive, still here,"

"Don't do that again," d'Artagnan told him, "don't ever do that again,"

He could not, with clear conscious, promise him that. If there was ever again a chance to save the younger man's life at the cost of his own Aramis knew what his choice would be. The three of them had years to learn and accept what place they held in each other's lives and he knew d'Artagnan would come to the realization soon enough.

So Aramis didn't say a word and decided to just hold his brother up as long as the younger man needed it.

* * *

He knew it was a bad idea, had voiced it as much.

Board games had been and will always be a bad idea as far as Athos was concerned; he had learned this wisdom the hard way. As children he had found in Porthos an exciting companion to play chess with, the only problem in their rousing bouts was Aramis. He would sit enraptured for the first ten minutes and then start giving helpful pointers until Porthos would be strangling him amidst the board and the pieces.

They had tried to engage Aramis in a game many times but it was annoying the way he lost interest half way through. Be it chess or draughts, he'd be whining for something to do fifteen minutes into the board.

"Go to jail, move directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred," d'Artagnan read the card, placed it in the center of the board and jabbed it with a finger, "alright, how are you doing this Porthos?"

"Doing what?"

"Taking all the good cards,"

"It's called luck,"

"You have both 'get out of jail free' cards."

"And…?"

"And you don't even need them; I've been to the jail most,"

"And we're all so proud of you." Aramis spoke up from where he was lounging against the sofa.

D'Artagnan glared at him before chucking the card at his head.

"Can we get on with it? I believe its Raoul's turn," Constance adjusted her banker's cap pointedly.

Athos watched his son roll the dice then move along his piece to stop at the free parking; he was landing on his own property and avoiding the 'dangerous' ones with a scary precision. The neat division of money and the property cards splayed out before the boy reminded him of Thomas and to his surprise, for the first time after his brother's death, Athos felt a smile tugging at his lips at the thought of him.

He took his turn with that same smile and landed on the station.

"You're on my train station," Porthos announced happily.

"They're all your train stations," Athos pointed out.

He wasn't the only one paying to Porthos, Aramis followed him but the big man himself was picking up another chance card in the next move.

"Looks like I won at the Vanity Fair," he showed them the words with a grin.

D'Artagnan groaned as Porthos collected the prize money from Constance.

"Are you going to cough up the bail money or will you be paying in turns," she asked the young man.

Grumbling under his breath d'Artagnan paid the money and took his turn. In his third turn he met the policeman on the other end.

Aramis snickered.

Porthos laughed.

Monopoly pieces went flying.

And some expletives were echoed that had Athos covering his son's ears.

He plucked Raoul up from the floor, out of the accidental demolition crew and settled the boy on his hip as he glared at the two men rolling around in a mass of limbs at his feet. Constance and Aramis had wisely retreated onto the sofa and were making bets with the fake money. Athos would have broken up the fight sooner if it wasn't for the giggling mass in his arms, as it was he let his brothers sit up in their own time.

"I hate those pointy elbows," Porthos grumbled as he rubbed his stomach.

Aramis grinned when Constance rolled her eyes and handed him some fake cash.

"Did you bet against me?" Porthos asked.

"Never," Aramis shook his head, "but I knew those pointy elbows would get you,"

"Pup's a scraper,"

"Not a pup," d'Artagnan kicked his leg from where he was sprawled on the floor.

Athos picked up the quartet of stuffed toys lined on the sofa and turned to the men on the floor.

"Clean up the mess gentlemen, while I put Raoul to bed," he said.

"Bed time story!" Raoul gave a little jump.

"They're that good huh?" d'Artagnan sat up.

"Dad's the best storyteller," Raoul gave an enthusiastic nod.

He had imagined he'd be embarrassed in such a situation but Athos found out that he was not. The honest praise from his son, over such a small matter as this, stirred warmth in his chest and teased a proud smile out of him.

"Guess we're missing the fun," Porthos grinned, "can we sit in?"

"Porthos…"

"Can they?" Raoul's eyes were wide and pleading and Athos wondered if d'Artagnan was giving him lessons in this as well, "Can they listen to the story too?" Raoul asked tangling his fingers in Athos' shirt.

"The mess…"

"We've got this," Constance spoke up.

In record time the four of them had set everything right and stowed in its place. As Athos took his place on the sofa with his son curled into his side and he had to wonder when he had become such a pushover. His gaze traveled from Constance and d'Artagnan settling on the sofa across him and Porthos and Aramis getting comfortable on the floor with their backs against it; it dawned on Athos that he would always be a pushover for these people.

"Tell them the dragons' story Dad," Raoul grinned, "please? It's the best. Please tell it from the start."

Now that had Athos' face heating up. It was a story of his own creation and one that he would happily never share with his brothers. He was about to protest and redirect like the tactician that he was but the plea was picked up by his impromptu audience.

"Fine, fine," Athos shook his head at the grinning faces and braced himself.

"In a land of mountains in a far off village," Raoul prompted him eagerly.

Athos couldn't believe he was doing this.

"In a land of mountains in a far off village there were two young dragons who were best friends," he smoothed the hair from his son's face and settled back, "they studied together and played together and lived together in the highest cave of the mountain. And they were called A'sol and Petra,"

Athos dared not glance at his friends and forced himself to continue.

"Petra was the strongest in all the villages of the valley, his shimmering green scales could withstand any weapon and he could mow down armies of hundreds in a single swoop, but he was the gentlest creature at heart –"

"A big teddy bear actually," Aramis said, "fond of collecting strays and taking care of them."

Athos glanced his way and saw his soft smile, but he did not look to Porthos.

"Indeed, he was powerful but he only used his power to protect those who couldn't protect themselves," Athos said, "and he was best friends with A'sol, a quiet, blue scaled dragon fond of the cold of his cave –"

"Because he had had the warmest heart there was," Porthos spoke up.

"You know this story Uncle Porthos?" Raoul grinned at him, "Did you know A'sol loved his books so much that he had collected a mountain full of them?"

Athos could feel his ears burning and did his best not to shift his weight where he sat.

"I know the story a little," Porthos said, "I know A'sol acted like he enjoyed his alone time with his books but he was the most caring dragon of all and the most honourable,"

"He couldn't stand by and watch someone get treated wronged," Aramis said.

"And he was a great teacher too," d'Artagnan added.

"Would have been a great teacher if he had any students," Athos said pointedly, "which he didn't because he was still a young dragon with ways to go."

D'Artagnan made an 'oh' face and ducked his head.

Athos couldn't help but shake his head at the eager interruptions.

"Anyway," he said, "One day A'sol and Petra went to the academy for their daily lessons and found an odd hatchling there. It was a scrawny, excited little thing that was mostly feathers."

"And annoyingly cheerful," Porthos grinned.

"Clueless in its eagerness," Athos nodded to him.

"A bit wild," Porthos added.

"And irresponsible," Athos agreed.

"I think we know enough about this hatchling," Aramis rolled his eyes and slapped at d'Artagnan's foot that was nudging him. Constance giggled and Athos shared a grin with Porthos.

"It was a young phoenix," Raoul announced excitedly.

The silence was immediate; Athos tried not to think about it and made sure his voice didn't waver. He knew it was his son's favorite part and though he had never imagined to share this story with the rest of them, Athos knew what he said next would matter more than a bedtime story ever could.

"The phoenix," Raoul urged him.

"Yes, the phoenix, it was a fire bird, beyond the beautiful but deadly sharp red feathers was a healing fire," Athos kept his eyes on his son, "it could heal the ill, mend the wounds and repair broken hearts; and when that fire would burn through the phoenix to help those around it, that same fire would then spark the bird to rise back from its ashes. It was only natural that all the people in the village wanted to be near this hatchling."

He smiled for the sake of the boy snuggled in his side and hoped the child wasn't able to hear his racing heart. Athos glanced to the sofa across and found three pair of wet eyes, but the eyes that he sought were staring fixedly on the floor.

He desperately hoped that he hadn't made a mistake that would push Aramis further away from them. Athos didn't like the way he didn't respond to arm that Porthos had placed around his shoulder, the dark bent head wasn't rising to meet his gaze.

"The phoenix was called Artemis," Raoul told the group as if his father had forgotten where the tale went from there, "and a wizard had cursed him,"

Aramis flinched then.

"Maybe we should…" Constance made to stand.

"No," the whispered word from Aramis stopped her.

He cleared his throat and looked to Athos; the smile on his face was bright but did not reach his dark eyes.

"Please continue, we want to know what happened," he said.

"Aramis…" Porthos began.

"I want to hear the story," he said.

And Athos hoped that he would take the same message from this story that he had wanted his son to learn from it. He nodded to himself and began again.

"Alright then, this wizard had cursed the young phoenix so that every time someone got too close to the hatchling, it would burst into flames." Athos cleared his throat, "now if there was nothing to heal, the fire couldn't do much but burn those in its range. The villagers soon realized how the curse worked and began withdrawing from the phoenix. But the dragons did not."

"Because they were brothers!" Raoul exclaimed.

"Yes, the dragons are creatures of fire just like the phoenix, they weren't afraid of the flames because the fire that they each bore made them brothers," Athos said, "and the dragons decided to help Artemis to defeat the wizard so that he could be free of his curse. They searched for years, in the mountains near and far until one day they met The Lady."

"She knew what to do," Raoul yawned and pressed closer to him, "she helped,"

"The Lady told them of a Dragon-born wizard," Athos nodded, "she told them that he lived in the land of Gascony and that without him the three of them could never be as strong as they could be."

"The good wizard was smart and powerful," Raoul told the small group and Athos could see d'Artagnan flush pink, "and brave," Raoul went on before he yawned widely, "and silly."

Porthos snorted and d'Artagnan huffed.

"I think that's enough for tonight," Athos gathered the sleepy child, "You need to be in bed."

"But we stopped here the last time," Raoul rubbed his eyes.

"Then we can all listen ahead together next time around," Constance smiled, "how about I tuck you in tonight?"

Athos raised a brow at the sudden suggestion but after a glance towards his brothers, he didn't need an explanation. Porthos' lips were pursed in a thin line of displeasure and d'Artagnan was staring between the big man's stiff posture to the deliberately loose one of Aramis.

It was that fake smile, shaky around the edges on Aramis face that spiked worry in Athos' heart.

* * *

He waited.

And hugged Raoul just a little tighter when the boy bid him goodnight; smiled at Constance in gratitude for her intuition and placed a hand on d'Artagnan's knee to keep him in place when he seemed unsure of staying back with them. And from corner of his eye Porthos watched Aramis, watched the façade the man beside him put up; hating the blows that had formed the mask for his friend and hating the blows that had fractured it.

"I think I should hit the bed as well," Aramis said.

"And lay there staring at the ceiling?" Porthos asked.

"That's not –" Aramis searched for the right word, "necessary,"

"So you could stay here and we could talk,"

"About what?"

"About the fact that your hands are shaking for starters," Porthos was not going to back down.

Aramis looked down in surprise and clenched his trembling fingers into fists, his jaw twitched in annoyance of being caught out as he glared back at Porthos. But the challenge in his eyes softened at whatever he saw in the big man's face and Porthos held onto that as a hope that all was not lost.

"I'm sorry if the story upset you," Athos joined them on the floor.

"It didn't," Aramis shook his head, "it was –"

"Lacking in originality?" Porthos smiled.

"You could do with better names Athos," d'Artagnan added, "what's my name in there by the way?"

"You don't have a name in the story because you are not in it," Athos smirked, "the characters are purely the product of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental,"

"Should have given the disclaimer at the start mon frère," Aramis smile was a flash as he turned to Porthos in a mock serious tone, "now am I allowed to go to bed?"

"Not before you tell me what's eating at you,"

"Porthos…"

"Something pricked at you in that story, you're hurting Aramis I need to know what it is," Porthos cut him off, "I can't – we can't help you until we know what's wrong."

"What do you want me to say? That my past is still a bleeding wound in my mind? That I just realized what our friendship had cost you all? That how much you've suffered by being near me?" Aramis voice rose before dropping, "you shared the burden of my curse by keeping me in your lives," his eyes lowered, his head dipped.

"And what about the parts where you helped us heal?" Porthos demanded.

But his words seemed to fall flat around Aramis who sat unmoving, with his chin resting on his chest, dark hair falling forward and hiding his face. Anger spiked in a blinding flash and Porthos lunged forward to grab his friend by the front of his shirt; hauling him up onto his knees and forcing his head up.

The sight that met Porthos froze him in place.

There were tears.

Falling hot and fast, rolling down the side of his face and soaking his beard, trailing over the arch of his nose and along the dip on its sides. Aramis was crying, truly crying, and the rarity of it gave Porthos' lungs a pause. The salty lump in his breath rose to the back of his throat and swallowing hard Porthos gathered his brother to him.

Aramis came willingly, his head thumped solidly against Porthos' chest as his shoulders heaved with the force of his tears. And he still pressed closer, hands fisted in the front of Porthos' shirt where his knuckles dug almost painfully into his chest and Aramis still pressed closer, burrowing his head in Porthos' chest like he wanted to somehow cross the skin, flesh and bones and curl up in the hollow of Porthos' chest.

Porthos wished it could be so; he wished with all his heart that he could ward off all the pain and keep his brother safe from the demons that haunted him. He heaved Aramis up and closer still, arms wrapped tight around the shuddering ribs that couldn't keep a rhythm to properly breathe through the tears. He could feel the stuttering, broken expanding of his brother's lungs and his eyes welled at the harsh, desperate sound that accompanied it.

"Shh… 'Mis, you gotta breathe," Porthos genuinely feared his friend would pass out from the lack of oxygen, "breathe 'Mis please….Shh…"

The muscles twitched under his hands and the ragged breath didn't ease but Porthos could pick out the words falling against his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"

They clawed at his heart and left it in shreds.

It was Athos who leaned forward, one hand tangled in Aramis' hair at the nape of his neck.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked.

With a rattling spasm of his lungs, Aramis pulled in a breath and Porthos let him shift out of his hold enough to face Athos. The man in his grasp wiped uselessly at his bloodshot eyes, coughing out an exhale as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry you all got pulled into this," Aramis closed his eyes as more tears followed, "I'm sorry he hurt you all for being in my life,"

And right then, Porthos was sure he could commit a murder.

He wanted to go down to the prison holding Senior and wring his neck with his bare hands.

His rage burst in a growl as he grasped his brother by the shoulders and yanked him around to face him. His fingers dug into the hard muscle beneath but Aramis didn't seem to notice, his puffy eyes stared blearily at him.

"You don't apologize for what he did," Porthos gave him a little shake; "you never apologize for his actions."

"But he only hurt you because you are my friends,"

"Yes he did," Athos said and turned their brother to face him instead, "that were his deeds not yours."

Porthos didn't understand why they had to explain this to Aramis, why he couldn't see the obvious truth. He swiped his sleeve over his own burning eyes when he noticed the glistening tear tracks on Athos' face. But his brother paid them no mind as he reached forwards and placed a hand on either side of Aramis' face, making sure that their gaze held.

"And we chose to stand with you," Athos said, "we knew about him," he shrugged a shoulder, "eventually; but we stayed by you because it was our decision. You do not need to apologize for what came of that," Athos' hand slipped to the back of Aramis' neck and he leaned forward until their foreheads were touching, "We are not a family save for our choice Aramis and that makes us stronger for it," he reached up and pressed his lips to his brother's hairline.

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob escaped Aramis as he leaned into the touch.

Half blinded by tears he crawled into Athos' lap, threw his arms around his shoulders, stuck his face in the side of his neck and he sobbed. Porthos wrapped him in an embrace even as Athos held him close; and tucked between the two of them Aramis trembled and gasped through his tears as his precious control splintered apart.

It felt like ages as he sat there but Porthos knew they would stay just like that for ages more to come if that was what it took to calm their brother.

He shifted only when he felt Aramis trying to sit up. His friend wiped his nose on his sleeve and shifted back to lean against the sofa, drawing up his knees as he went. Porthos didn't miss the way Athos shifted with him, one arm still draped around his shoulders.

"Here," d'Artagnan offered him a bottle of water.

Aramis shook his head as he wiped a hand over his face, sporadic tears still leaking out of the corner of his eyes. Porthos took the bottle, twisted off the cap and wrapped his friend's trembling fingers around it with a pointed glare.

"It's gonna make me sick again," Aramis reminded him.

"It won't" Porthos said, "You've lost enough fluids for one day,"

It earned him a tired glare but still prompted timid sips from his friend.

"I just can't believe the things he did," Aramis said.

"I wish he hadn't murdered my father," d'Artagnan's eyes were wet as they roamed over them before settling on Aramis, "but I don't regret meeting you. I wouldn't trade our friendship for the world."

The smile on Aramis face was soft, dimmed by the pain too close to the surface but Porthos was elated to see it was real.

"C'mere," Aramis patted the space on his other side and d'Artagnan filled it immediately, leaning into the older man when he placed an arm across his shoulders. It teased out another smile from Aramis.

"I'm glad we found you too oh great wizard from the land of Gascony," he said.

Porthos chuckled at the indignant eye roll from their youngest and settled on the boy's free side.

"A dragon-born wizard," he corrected.

"A silly dragon-born wizard," Athos added.

"And I wouldn't trade our friendship for the world either, Charles d'Artagnan of Gascony," Aramis told him.

* * *

 **Maybe a bit too OOC...**

 **Thank you all the lovely people who read, follow, favorite and review this story. Clara, Debbie, Guest and NV thank you for your kind words, they are cherished.**


	3. Chapter 3

… _It starts with the ringing of his mobile phone. He is preparing the dough for the homemade pizza they'll share at Aramis' return from SAVOY. Porthos accepts the call without thought._

" _Du Vallon," he says._

 _There's a woman on the other end. Her words are lost in the pit of sinking denial that opens under his feet. Until he surfaces at the sight of Athos' eyes, red rimmed, wet and rounded in fear as they step through the sliding door, turning as one into the corridor stretching out before them. The smell of antiseptic clings to his skin as he weaves through the thin crowd; the only sound is the beating of his own heart that freezes as he turns the corner._

 _The corridor has led him to their shared flat and there is Aramis; sitting with his back against the door, knees drawn up and a knitted baby shoe held gently in his fingers. It's been ages since Porthos had seen him crying. Really, shoulder shaking with the force of it, crying._

 _He goes down on his knees before him and holds him up by the shoulders. The tears in Aramis' eyes give way to a glazed look that is far more frightening. And Porthos gasps as blood bubbles past his friend's lips._

" _No, no no no no no…"_

 _And the world tunnels onto his brother lying limp, his eyes soft, neither in farewell nor in greeting, just hooked viciously onto him until they close. And a high pitched whine fills the air around him…_

…he sucked in a breath, letting it out slowly.

The light behind his closed eyelids told him that he had slept longer than he had in months and Porthos rolled over onto his side, not really surprised by the muffled eeep as he squished d'Artagnan. The younger man tried to wriggle and lower the arm across his chest.

Porthos grinned to himself.

" 'Morning," he opened his eyes.

"It will be a really good morning if you let me breathe," d'Artagnan snipped back in a whisper.

Porthos raised a brow at their youngest, who was lying on his back with one hand pressed flat against the back of Aramis' ribs where the man was curled onto his side. Athos had snaked an arm under their brother who was unabashedly using him as a pillow and had rested his hand on the side of Aramis' chest, next to which was now Porthos' hand.

He watched d'Artagnan follow his gaze and their youngest gave a defeated sort of a shake of his head, it seemed they had all sought the comfort of their brother's breathing by finding its proof in the gentle rise and fall of each inhale and exhale.

"I think this is the first time I've slept through the night in ages," d'Artagnan turned his head on the cushion to face him, "my back isn't happy to be sleeping on the floor but I don't feel tired, so that's an improvement,"

"You just needed to cuddle is all," Porthos grinned at him and playful inched closer.

"Stay away Porthos, you're a furnace!" d'Artagnan scrunched his nose and squirmed to put some distance between them.

It jostled the other two and they both stilled. Waited as Aramis burrowed closer into Athos who simply rubbed his hand over the side of his brother's chest and they both slept on. Porthos couldn't help the grin that broke on his face, in moments like these he could almost forget what had driven them into holding onto each other, almost but not entirely. They all had had enough near death encounters to fuel a lifetime of nightmares and then some, yet Porthos wondered how the fear that haunted their subconscious was not one for their own lives but those of their brothers.

From beside him d'Artagnan stretched his arms over his head, knocked his knuckles in the sofa by their head and sat up with a grumble. Shaking out his hands, he looked around the large main hall that was empty save for them and cocked his head at the unmistakable sound of the bustling house staff somewhere deeper in the building.

"No one came down here," he frowned,

"Constance must've warned them off," Porthos poked him in the leg, "she's a smart one."

"She thinks we need help," d'Artagnan glanced down at him before running a hand through his hair, "thinks we need professional help, like a psychologist or something."

Porthos chuckled, he couldn't help it.

"What's so funny?"

"It would take an army of psychologists, preferably one trained in combat and firearms," Porthos pushed up and leaned back against the sofa to sit beside his friend, "Can you imagine Athos baring his soul to a well intentioned stranger? He'll kill 'em with his glare alone."

D'Artagnan pulled his legs close and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Do you think we'll get over it?" the man sounded too young.

Porthos swung an arm across his shoulders and pulled him against his side; feeling a smile pull at his lips when the younger man came all too willingly.

"We never get over it," Porthos said, "It becomes a part of us eventually, another memory nothing more, nothing less."

"I don't like it,"

"If life ever asks my opinion on the matter I'll pass on your message,"

He pretended the younger man's shove hurt more than it did and grinned when d'Artagnan's stomach rumbled, rather dampening the effect of his glare.

"Someone's hungry,"

"I am going for breakfast and to look for Constance," d'Artagnan got to his feet, "and not in that order."

"Leave some food for the rest of us," Porthos told him.

He watched the younger man turn right at the arched entrance of the lounge and the sound of his rapid ascend on the stairs soon followed. Porthos stretched his arms out, trying to pull out the kinks in his spine before he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling lighter and strangely aged all of a sudden.

"He's a good kid,"

"And you give good advice," Athos' voice floated up to him.

"Thought you were playing possum,"

"How else was I supposed to get to know about the lethal optical powers you had bestowed on me?"

Porthos drew up his knees and rested a hand on Aramis' shoulder; he couldn't keep the sadness from his smile as he caught Athos' gaze.

"d'Art has a point though, professional help may be the way to go," he said.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Athos told him.

He shifted his hand from Aramis' side and into his hair, scratching his scalp as he tried to jostle him awake. His efforts were rewarded by the man groaning and pressing his face deeper into Athos' shoulder. Porthos caught the exasperated eye roll from Athos and winked at him. He leaned back against the sofa and let the full force of the bright sunlight fall on Aramis' face.

"Kill the sun Athos," Aramis groaned and half crawled on top of the man.

"I shall endeavor to do so if you would release me from pillow duty,"

"You're good at pillow duty," Aramis said.

"It's a gift,"

The dryness in Athos' voice was softened by the fact that he hadn't pushed off the man, he was actually holding on to him. Porthos chuckled when Aramis sat up with another groan, clutching at his lose curls that were dipping over his face.

"My head is stuffed with lead," he declared.

"Lemme shed some light on it," Porthos shifted again to let the stream of sunshine from the gable window fall onto his brother.

He laughed when Aramis cursed under his breath, blindly reached for the cushion d'Artagnan had been using as a pillow and smacked Porthos in the face with it. The accuracy of his hit not affected by the fact that he had tucked his face in the side of Athos' neck as the man sat up on his other side.

Porthos laughed until he had tears in his eyes; and they were not from the excursion.

It was the sight of Aramis seeking comfort in his brother, invading his personal space without thought, like the boundaries just didn't exist for him. They never had existed between them, not until Aramis had drawn the lines he had been hesitating to cross. As Porthos locked eyes with Athos he saw the wet shine there as well.

Aramis was finally coming out from wherever he had retreated.

"You're crying?" Aramis asked quietly as he pulled back a little.

"Nah, his face is leaking," Porthos shook his head.

"So is yours," Athos countered.

Aramis looked from one man to the other; eyes slightly swollen with the blood vessels stark red against the whites peered at their faces. With a twinge of guilt Porthos shifted to cast him in the shade and the pinched corners of Aramis' eyes eased instantly.

"I'm –"

"If you say sorry I will smack you so hard –"

"I'm not sure I can join in," Aramis flashed him a grin and rubbed at his eyes, "my tear ducts are all dried up."

"Then stop grating on them," Athos pulled his hand away.

Aramis nodded and dug his hands in his hair instead. Porthos watched him sit away from the support of the sofa at his back and made sure that direct sunlight didn't reach him again.

"You could go to your room and sleep in," he offered.

"Don't want to," Aramis shook his head, "but I've been thinking all day yesterday. If you all want to, we could – we could go back home."

That was an unexpected development. Porthos frowned at this sudden change; he could tell by the way his friend deliberately kept his posture loose that he was bracing himself for the answer. Aramis was ready to go back but not happy about it.

"And what will you do when we get back?" he asked.

A shrug was all the answer he got.

"You'll try to go back to your life," Athos prompted.

"I don't think I can," Aramis said, "I'm not even sure if I know who I am anymore,"

"You're Aramis," Porthos said.

"I was, I had been Aramis, someone that I kept telling myself who had nothing to do with Senior," Aramis stopped kneading his temple with his fingers and clutched at his hair instead, "But then I was always Rene inside and I accepted that when I had to face Senior but now – I thought I was Rene the Fourth, ruthless like my father but I wasn't able to kill the man."

"He is your father after all," Athos said, "that's as close as it gets,"

"Didn't stop him from trying to kill me,"

"He always wrecked havoc around you 'Mis," Porthos had to point out, "he hurt you, but didn't try to murder you."

Aramis arched a brow and Porthos felt something sink in his stomach.

"He pointed his weapon in my face and pulled the trigger," he said, "he was out of bullets by then,"

Porthos felt the bile rise to his throat and he had to look away. He had no idea what felt worse, the fact that Aramis spoke so lightly of his father intending to murder him or that he didn't seemed fazed by the fact that he had escaped with his life only through dumb luck.

"I will kill that bastard,"

The profanity itself was a rarity coming from Athos but it was the chilled fury in his voice that had Porthos looking his way. His friend looked ready to carry out his threat and Porthos agreed wholeheartedly to help him.

"Really you two, he had done worst." Aramis shook his head, "that was a crime he didn't succeed in,"

"That's one crime I would like to see him hanged for," Athos said.

"No you won't, we're not letting him in our lives again," Aramis shook his head, "it has to stop."

Porthos grit his teeth to keep from voicing the denial for that, it was time to put that to rest and he forced the anger under his skin to simmer down. Instead he looked to the man sitting between them who had gone back to pressing his fingers against his forehead.

"You know you're our brother right?" Porthos said, "no matter what else,"

Aramis nodded; the smile on his face was real and bright like honey caught in the sunshine.

"And the rest will fall in place around that," Athos added.

Porthos grinned at his best friends.

"It's like Mum used to say, life's a patchwork darlin'–"

"– you gotta stitch one piece at a time." Athos and Aramis finished in union.

And Porthos grinned wider when the latter leaned into him. From across them, Athos was grinning too and Aramis frowned up at the big man before zeroing in on Athos.

"Alright what?" Aramis demanded, "First you're crying together now you're grinning over my head, what am I missing?"

Porthos snaked an arm around his brother and pulled him closer, who didn't seem to notice let alone protest against the gesture. It was Athos who rolled his eyes and explained the matter.

"You haven't been this tactile ever since you came back,"

"Guess the solitary confinements squashed it out of me," Aramis shrugged.

It was the way he went rigid that Porthos knew his brother hadn't wanted to let that slip out. The big man was glad that his friend was facing Athos and not him; he wouldn't have been able to keep the horror from his face. As it was, it took every ounce of self control to not push for further information, this was Aramis relaxed enough to let his guard down, if they moved too fast he just might shut them out again.

"Don't look like that Athos, it was for my safety," Aramis reached out and grasped his friend's hand.

It had Porthos look to his brother across from them and found him alarmingly pale. He had a feeling Athos was trying hard to not to throw up if the pursed lips were to go by.

"Senior had some friends in there; this was before he began selling them out to the authorities," Aramis held on to him, "its fine Athos, they were doing it to keep me safe."

"And you didn't tell us," Porthos didn't want to sound accusing.

Aramis sat up in hurry to look at him; the brown eyes turned to him in mute apology and for the life of him Porthos could not stand against that look, never had been able to before. His rising anger deflated like air out of a punctured balloon and he simply threw an arm across his brother's shoulder melding him into his side.

" 's not fair, you're a grown man for goodness's sake!" he said.

"What?" Aramis sounded honestly confused.

"Nothing,"

"Porthos are we good?" Aramis asked and hurried on to explain, "I wanted to talk about it after the first time it happened but I had assumed that –"

"We've moved on and were happy with our lives and not really worried about what happened to you in there?" Athos finished.

Aramis hung his head.

"We were miserable," Athos moved to sit on Aramis' other side, "and it seems we made a mistake not letting you catch a glimpse of it."

"I made the same mistake," Aramis admitted but didn't look up, "Wish I had talked to you at the time. Some days were just really bad."

The soft edge of defeat in that tone spoke magnitudes of the damage the isolation had done. Porthos didn't want to imagine his brother trapped alone for twenty three hours a day, the thought of it churned in his stomach and his fingers tangled in his friend's shirt.

"My thoughts are never a good company," Aramis shrugged.

"Then you share them with us," Athos put an arm around his waist and pressed into his side.

"And we'll make sure that they're not the only company you've got," Porthos said.

* * *

The helmet was a foreign weight on his head, its straps scratching along the side of his face and the lock under his chin making him feel decidedly trapped. Beads of sweat pressed out from his hairline and trickled down his face, down his collar and drenched his shirt until it clung to him in the most uncomfortable way. The smell of dry earth scratched at the back of his throat as he squirmed in the saddle; this was not the day to be swaddled in a body protector and an air vest.

At his side, Constance didn't seem to mind the layers she wore and when she turned to regard him with a smile d'Artagnan almost ignored how much he itched to tear off the knee and elbow protectors she had forced him into.

"I knew Athos' lessons would pay off," she said, "You're a natural."

But apparently not natural enough for her to trust his equestrian skills without the plethora of protective gear.

"I'm naturally melting," d'Artagnan almost pouted, "you'll have to carry me back in a container or leave me back as a puddle,"

"You were the one who wanted to go for a ride,"

"I thought it would be romantic, but this is just –"

"A puddle in the making?" she quirked a brow.

"Can I just take off the vest?"

"No,"

A disgruntled groan escaped from him as he hung his head back and stared up at the bleached blue sky that gleamed like a particularly shiny glass marble. His horse kept up its loitering pace beside Constance' as they moved through neat rows of olive trees, far from the farmhouse and close to the hillside.

A feeling like a spider crawling on his neck had him sitting up straighter in the saddle and d'Artagnan pulled his horse to a stop. He cocked his head to the side, trying to pinpoint the vague sound that had reached out to him.

"What's wrong?" Constance asked.

"Didn't you hear that?" he could have sworn he had heard it again, a rustle of loose earth slipping down.

The rugged isolation of the area suddenly felt dangerous and for some reason d'Artagnan wished they hadn't come out there. He was sure that none of his friends were planning to come out for a ride and Senor Alvaro was visiting the city with his family, but d'Artagnan could not ignore the sense that they were no longer alone.

He was about to suggest that they head back when the men poured out from the hillside, surrounding them in seconds. D'Artagnan pulled his horse this way and that but the dark eyes and yellow grins circled him. There were ten armed men, who looped them in until their horses were pressed close together.

One of them said something in Spanish too fast for d'Artagnan to even guess the meaning.

"No I was told there were four men, but I didn't expect to meet one this far out," said the man on his other side as he shook his head, "so much for going in quietly,"

"What do you want?" d'Artagnan demanded from him.

"Nothing you can help with," the man replied.

"Then we should be on our way," Constance nudged her horse to move but the men wouldn't let her pass.

No matter how much he wanted Constance to break out of the ring and ride off d'Artagnan knew it would be a foolish move. He could not take on all of these men, one of them was bound to shoot after her and he could not take that risk.

"She didn't tell me there was a woman here," one of the men turned to the one d'Artagnan had talked to, "did you know Renard?"

" 'Course I didn't," Renard snapped at him, his eyes focused on Constance, "Will it be a problem for you lot?"

As an answer the other man grasped Constance's foot in the stirrup and pointed his weapon at her face.

"Come on down Senora," he leered and tugged on her ankle.

Anger sparked in his chest and burned out any sense of danger as d'Artagnan swung a leg over the saddle, taking a flying leap off the horse. He managed to bring down three of the nearest men, pinning them with his fall while the air vest saved him from any damaged ribs. He scrambled off of them and head-butted the fourth, not even registering the hollow impact that resounded down his spine before he swung around to punch the next face nearing him even as a hand locked onto his other wrist.

Hands grabbed at him, pulled at his wrists and twisted his arms behind his back. He heard Constance's pleading him to stop and the red haze of rage dispersed, only to be replaced by pain as a kick to the back of his legs made them buckle. His knees hit the ground with a teeth jarring impact.

"d'Art –!" Constance voice was cut off by a rag that was clamped onto her mouth.

"Let her go! Constance! Constance!" d'Artagnan struggled to get to his feet even as he saw his fiancé slump in the man's grip. Her limbs limp and her head dropping to her chest.

"NO! Constance!"

"She can't hear you," Renard stepped before him, "out like a light that one,"

With an animalistic growl d'Artagnan lunged for the man, he saw the glint of the metal a second too late as the butt of the gun came flying for his face. Pain exploded on the side of his face, rang up to his skull and down his neck. He landed on his hands and knees, frowning at the red drops raining on the ground before him as his watery vision threatened to black out.

The ringing in his ears gave way to muffled sounds.

"What should we do with 'em?" someone asked.

"She did say she wanted witnesses," Renard walked closer to d'Artagnan.

The younger man felt the boot at his back that came down on him with enough force to make his wobbly arms collapse under the pressure. His sore face pressed into the dirt and d'Artagnan blinked to get back his bearings.

Panic thrummed in his heart as his arms were stretched above his head and he felt the ropes curling around wrists and ankles.

"Guess these two will have to do," Renard stepped away from him, "We'll just have to finish off the rest of them,"

It sent a shudder through him that had nothing to do with the nauseating pain throbbing in his face. His bleary eyes tracked the men as they deposited Constance onto the ground and moved ahead; their receding footsteps echoing against the ground and reverberating in d'Artagnan skull where it was pressed into the dirt.

He waited until he was sure that they were not turning back.

Until they were sure he was no longer a threat.

D'Artagnan blew out a breath; dust swirled up before his eyes and he squinted against the golden flecks. The heat slithered around him and coiled in his belly as he pressed his forehead against the ground swallowing thickly.

With a groan he pressed his bound hands against the ground and forced himself up onto his knees. After taking a moment to get his bearings, d'Artagnan dragged himself closer where Constance lay.

Relieved tears sprung to his eyes to find her unconscious but unharmed. He tucked an auburn curl behind her ear and frowned at the streak of dirt his fingers left in their wake.

Bound hands unclasped first the helmet, then the air vest and then the body protector, forcing a sigh from the man. Tossing them aside d'Artagnan looked around, hoping to find their horses. They needed to get back to the farmhouse before the men who had attacked them. He had to get back and warn his brothers.

* * *

He had enjoyed it up until a point. It was refreshing to watch Aramis tease Porthos as the man set to baking. Athos had enjoyed it up until eggs had started flying. When the first edible projectile had hit Aramis square in the chest with a spectacular crack and splatter Athos had exited the kitchen, taking his progeny as he went.

Raoul was laughing his head off.

"That was fun, can we do it?"

"I thought you wanted to show me your swimming expertise," Athos redirected.

The boy skipped a little as he nodded up at him, the bag at his back carrying his stuffed toys bounced in time with his step.

"Uncle Charles says I could be a pro,"

"Well if Uncle Charles says so it has be true,"

"You think I can be a pro?" Raoul's eyes widened.

There it was, the insecurity peeking out from behind the innocence. Athos had read the documents M'Lady had left him, the fact that his son had been through two orphanages and three set of parents in the short span of little over five years and still managed to maintain some semblance of a happy little boy never seized to surprise him.

He had known another hurt but happy little boy when he was young, so it was not a surprise for him to see Raoul feel a pull towards Aramis.

Athos picked up his son and settled him on his hip so that they were at eye-level.

"I know you can be a pro at anything you set your mind to," he told him.

Raoul cocked his head to the side; the green-blue eyes studied his face soberly before a wide grin broke out on the boy's face.

"Anything," he asked.

"Anything," Athos nodded.

His son beamed at him and threw his small arms around Athos' neck to hug him tight. He erupted in a high pitched giggle right by Athos' ear and that was all the warning the man had before Aramis came to a stop beside them.

Covered in flour and eggs and looking like a manic baker's ghost.

Grinning and coughing out puffs of flour the man bent to catch his breath as Porthos appeared in the kitchen doorway,

"Get back here and clean this mess!" said the big man.

"Querido hermano mío you know I can't, you'll be tempted to bake me if I did," Aramis straightened and plucked at the front of his sticky shirt, unperturbed by the clumps of flour that chipped off and fell to the floor.

"I'm tempted to cook you alright," Porthos growled as he stomped over.

Aramis squeaked and stepped behind Athos only for the big man to grab him by the waist and haul him over his shoulder.

"Put me down! Porthos I swear –!"

"You made a mess you'll clean it up,"

"After I get to clean myself,"

"Nah, you'll clean up here while I take a shower," Porthos' voice echoed out.

"Hey Porthos?"

"What?"

The crunchy smack was heard all the way out of the kitchen. It was Aramis' laughter that followed, pouring out of the open kitchen door to where Athos stood, the laughter that greeted him like a cool breeze in the heat of summer.

Athos couldn't stop the fond smile from curling up on his face, he had missed that sound.

"They'll be alright?" Raoul asked.

"Of course," Athos assured him, "now let's go see you swim all the way around the pool,"

They kept to the shade of the building as they made their way to the guest house. Senor Alvaro usually left the garden gate of the swimming pool unlocked so Athos was sure that there would be no problem in going for a swim even with the man out with his family for a visit to the city. In fact Athos was glad of the privacy, as much as Senora Rosa doted upon Raoul and the four friends in general, he had never felt comfortable around her.

When they arrived at the wooden gate Athos reached over it and unlatched the small hook on the other side. He ushered in his son and glanced back over his shoulder, there was something off in the air about them and the tactician in him was on the edge.

"I'll get my floaties," Raoul dashed off towards the shower area set on the other side.

Athos watched him go and not for the first time wondered how Senior could have hurt Aramis like that, how a father could hurt his son like the man did, how a father could ever try to murder his boy. Drawing a hand through his hair Athos tamped down on the desire to hit something, preferably the smug face of Rene d'Herblay the Third.

He was locked up in his own thoughts so deeply that he felt the presence behind him at the last second. Athos ducked aside instinctively, the gun-swipe aimed for his head went untouched as he punched the man in the knee and across the face even as he dropped from the first hit.

A muffled cry cut him to his heart.

It made him forget about the next intruder who grabbed the back of his collar and pressed the muzzle of his gun against his back.

"Don't move,"

"Dad!" Raoul struggled against the man carrying him.

"Unhand him," Athos growled.

"Actually, we're here for the runt," said the man.

Athos grit his teeth and stepped back into the man holding him hostage, grabbing his wrist firm and outwards with one hand while smacking the elbow of the other in the side of his head. The man's grip loosened on the weapon and Athos caught it before it could hit the ground.

"You really wanna take that chance?" the man holding Raoul asked as he tucked a rag in his pocket.

Athos had the weapon trained on him, his mind going a mile a minute while his heart stuttered at the sight of his boy limp in the man's grip. Behind him the men he had knocked out were groaning back to their feet.

"What do you want from him?"

"I'm just the delivery man," the other one shrugged.

"He's the father Renard, maybe we could get extra," one of the men behind Athos perked up.

"You're really the runt's father?" Renard asked.

"What is it you?"

"You could come with," the man grinned, "quietly that is. Don't want to raise too much noise here."

Athos didn't even think.

"If I do you won't harm my son?"

"Like I said I'm the delivery man," Renard shrugged, "if the runt is fetching such a good price I'm hoping she'd pay better for the father."

Her, it was a woman who had sent these men after his boy, Athos latched onto that information.

"And who is your employer?" he asked.

"Can't spill those beans," Renard hefted the boy on his shoulder, "are you coming?"

Athos didn't see that he had a choice in the matter. If he could not save his son from these men then he was going with them one way or another. His jaw clenched as the man behind him reached for the weapon in his hand but Athos gave it up without protest.

He followed Renard out to the stables, hoping against hope that someone would see them from the farmhouse. Athos couldn't understand how his captor planned to keep the abduction quiet if he was going to use the horses but he didn't question the soundness of the plan as they stepped into the stables.

The stable boy was unconscious among the piles of hay and one of Renard's men waited for them.

"The others are in position?" he asked.

"They'll be done with before joining you,"

"No more witnesses," Renard pointed out, "kill the other two,"

Fear dropped like a boulder in his stomach and Athos shook his head silently. He looked up at Renard as the man swung in the saddle and placed Raoul before him.

"You have us, why kill the others," Athos prided himself to have kept his voice from wavering.

"One man as a witness the rest dead as a message, that's the orders," Renard shrugged as he turned around his horse to the man who had met them in the stables, "You all join the others, I'm taking these two with me."

Athos looked out the stables door at the farmhouse; he had to trust his brothers to take care of this. As the other three men backed out into the glaring sunlight beyond, Athos had to bite his lip to keep from warning his unawares friend. They could handle this he told himself, they had to be able to handle this because any other scenario was unacceptable.

He mounted his horse and looked to the man who had his son.

"Lead the way," he said.

* * *

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. The lovely people who leave me your thoughts, they are cherished and adored. Thank you and Thank you especially the guests who leave me reviews, your words mean a lot.**

 **Debbie: I can understand your pain in the matter and I hope you get to watch it on youtube instead of waiting for the dvd release.**


	4. Chapter 4

He wondered if it was unintentional or was it simply that they hadn't seen him as much of a threat to properly tie him up. Either way d'Artagnan was happy to take the leeway that was afforded to him on this day that had become an unexpected gift from hell.

His chipped nails throbbed from the effort that had set his ankles free; if his hands had been tied behind his back he would have never been able to tug those bindings loose. His hands clenched into fists and twisting his wrists d'Artagnan tried again to wriggle and slacken the ropes around them. A slow grin pulled at his lips when the bindings gave way and he blinked to keep the sweat from his eyes.

The sweat burned and the grin pulled on tender skin, vanishing instantly.

His face hurt.

He glanced down beside him to look at his fiancé. He had untied her first and made sure that she was lying on her side with her legs slightly curled; 'recovery position' Aramis had told him once, 'shut up and let me move,' d'Artagnan had replied at the time.

Now he just wished that it was helping the woman he loved in some way. She had still to make a move towards awareness and d'Artagnan could admit to himself that her prolonged unconsciousness was making him queasy. He stumbled to his feet and squinted at their empty surroundings.

The heat wasn't helping his roiling stomach either.

D'Artagnan frowned at the long neat lines of olive trees around him and hissed at the pain it caused him.

He bent and heaved Constance up; slipping under her arm and pressing his lips close against the nausea that kicked up several notches at his movement. The dust creased cheek rested against his shoulder and d'Artagnan took heart at the feeling of Constance's steady breath at the side of his neck.

"I've got you and I'm not letting go," he told her, voice dry and scratchy, "we'll be back at the farmhouse in no time, you just focus on waking up alright?"

One step, then another, and then another step.

It was a slow going but d'Artagnan grit his teeth until his jaw hurt and used the pain to fuel his anger over the situation; the situation he would resolve, he would see them to the farmhouse, there was just no other option for him.

Neck straight, eyes ahead as he tried to ignore the sun beating down on them.

D'Artagnan traced a stumbling path over the dusty ground, trying his best to remain in the shade of the olive trees as he weaved through their line. Tripping over his own feet he threw out a hand and caught his balance against a tree trunk. The sour taste at the back of his throat returned with a vengeance and he leaned his forehead against the tree trunk as he tamped down the desire to throw up.

It was then that he heard it.

The clipity-clop of a horse.

His back stiffened.

D'Artagnan was sure his brothers wouldn't know the need to come after him and that only left the men from the hillside. He eased Constance down and stood before her, he would not go down without a fight. Fists clenched at his sides d'Artagnan turned around to meet the new threat.

His eyes winded at the sight of the lone horse that seemed to have been following them. It was the chestnut mare d'Artagnan had been riding earlier.

"Uh… hi?"

The horse stilled at his voice, turned its head and regarded him with big round eyes; its ears rotating and twitching.

"You'd have saved me a lot of trouble if you'd come a bit earlier," d'Artagnan chose to ignore that he was talking to a horse, it was better than the silence around him, "not that I'm complaining, because you can still help."

He slowly neared the animal that pawed the ground, edging a little closer and then back from the man in a wary sort of curiosity.

"Now don't bite me alright?" d'Artagnan carefully reached out a hand, "I like to think we're friends, you did come back for me after all."

D'Artagnan laid a hand on the horse's flank, the velvet softness still a surprise for him in the face of the power of the beast. He had always imagined horses as strength, stamina, speed, assuming a certain hardness concerning the animals; the gentler, soft playfulness he had witnessed between Athos and his horse had floored him.

"I'm sorry I don't remember your name," d'Artagnan told the horse, "so I'm going to call you Boots, 'cause you're the same shade as these really neat pair of boots Porthos has. He said I could borrow them but they wouldn't fit," he rambled on, his tone taking a rather dejected tone, "Porthos' feet are big. But I'd like a pair of boots like those. So you're it. You're Boots."

The horse whinnied and fidgeted.

D'Artagnan frowned; Athos had told him to respect the horses.

"Mr. Boots?" he tried.

The horse nudged him with a wet nose and d'Artagnan half froze in fear of having his ear about to be bitten off. But the animal didn't seem to have any such intent. With a steadying breath d'Artagnan began to check the saddle and secure the straps, silently going over the steps Athos had taught him.

"Now you be good Mr. Boots," he muttered as he looked over to his fiancé before glancing back at the horse.

He had to get Constance onto the horse somehow.

He had to take her back.

And he had to help his brothers against the men who he was sure were by now at the farmhouse.

Fear threatened to overwhelm him as he straightened. The silence, the loneliness and the scale of the task before him swelled into a wave and he leaned against the horse, waiting for the sudden swinging of his vision to stop.

"D'Artagnan?"

He jerked away from his support with a squeak.

"D'Art?"

He looked to the animal, ridiculously relieved to find it not talking. It came to his mind a little belatedly that it was a woman's voice, his fiancé's voice to be precise. D'Artagnan wiped his head around so fast it left flashing spots in his vision; he was stumbling towards Constance before they had cleared.

"Constance? I'm here, it's alright," he dropped to his knees beside her side.

D'Artagnan steadied her when she swayed where she sat and Constance groaned as she raised a shaky hand to clutch at her head. Swallowing thickly she clenched her eyes shut and gripped his hand with surprising strength.

"Take it slow you were out for a while,"

"I'm alright," she murmured.

D'Artagnan could tell she wasn't but decided not to argue. He waited until she finally squinted up at him.

"You're hurt," her feather light touch hovered over the sore spot high on his cheek.

"Not badly," he grasped her fingers in his own and gave them a gentle squeeze, "and I'm way better now that you're up and coherent."

He glanced back towards the horse and wished he hadn't had to make the decision that came with it. It wasn't for his own churning stomach but the obvious nausea that Constance was trying to keep at bay.

"We'll have to ride back," he said.

Apology clear in his voice.

"I know," Constance tried to smile.

She waved a hand at him to help her up and together they moved slowly towards the horse. Getting into the saddle was a dizzy sickening affair and d'Artagnan was eternally grateful for the animal's patience. He forced himself to loosen the tight grip of his knees and was tempted to lean forward in an attempt to drape himself over the horse's neck.

He couldn't help a proud a smile at the ease with which Constance slid in the saddle before him despite the obvious dizziness still lingering in her eyes.

"They'll have reached the farmhouse by now," she said.

"I trust them to take care of it," d'Artagnan told her.

Because he suddenly realized that he really did. It was one thing to have faith in yourself but an entirely different feeling to have faith in another. It was something that was new to him and after the events of the past month it was a scary thought, but d'Artagnan realized that if there was a point where he knew something was out of his hand he would trust his brothers to handle it.

* * *

In the end they had called a truce; each heading for a shower before coming back to put the kitchen right.

Porthos picked his way through the sticky white patches and the drying smears that trailed broken eggshells. He collected the spatula from next to the wall and went to retrieve the bowls scattered between the stove and the kitchen island as the distant beat of horse hooves reached him. He had known d'Artagnan wouldn't last long in the noon heat.

"Guess the pup's coming to his senses," Porthos chuckled to himself as he straightened.

It was the crunch of eggshell underfoot, an unfamiliar foot fall behind him that had the big man swing around to slam the metal bowl in the hand wielding a gun. There was a second's lull as both men stared at the weapon skittering away before the intruder grabbed a knife from the island and slashed the air inches from where Porthos' throat had been.

Arching back Porthos scrabbled for the first object his fingers could lay purchase on and the ding echoed up to his shoulder as his makeshift weapon clanged with the knife.

It was a fork.

Porthos couldn't tell who was more surprised out of the two of them.

With a grin threatening to break over his face Porthos met each swing of the knife with the fork in his hand, effectively parrying the blows as he gained ground on the other man. He caught the blade between the prongs of his impromptu weapon and with twist of his wrist hinged the knife out of the man's grip, catching it in mid air before slamming a fist to his opponent's face.

He only had a second to catch his breath when another gun totting maniac appeared in the doorway and Porthos threw the knife before he could open fire. It buried hilt deep in the man's arm and stepping over the intruder unconscious at his feet Porthos reached the other one to knock him out cold.

"Shhh…" Porthos told the unconscious man as he eased him down and plucked the gun from his lax grip.

He had no idea who these men were, mercenaries most likely he decided as he took in the ragged appearance but wasted no time to search for identification. If they were in the farmhouse, intent to murder them, then the big man had only one priority and that was to get to his brothers.

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen Porthos scanned the empty corridor. With his enemy's weapon in hand Porthos quietly made his way towards the foyer and stopped in the slanted shadow that was cast over the wall of the hallway he was in.

A muffled clatter reached his ears followed by a single gunshot and Porthos' heartbeat picked up; the racket had come from upstairs where Aramis was, alone and unawares.

Determined to reach him, Porthos risked moving out of from where he was pressed against the wall. He was halfway to the staircase when his eyes locked with the man on the other end of the spacious main hall. Porthos ducked behind the cover of the arched entrance as bullets sprayed in his wake.

It took him a second to realize that there had been an echo, shots had been fired somewhere on the second floor too and Porthos hoped fervently that Aramis was safe. The big man spared a glance towards the stairs. Aramis was up there alone but he had to trust his brother to be able to handle this.

Because despite all that Aramis had been through, Porthos still believed in his friend.

He sneaked a look around his cover, cursing as two bullets buried in the wall where his head had been. He dropped to his knee and returned fire and the man attacking him went down with a bloody leg.

Somewhere out of sight there was an uproar and Porthos could imagine the horrified flurry of the house staff as he made to straighten. He twisted abruptly, out of the way of the man who had charged at his back, but it was a second too late.

Fire blazed in his side as the knife carved through skin and flesh from his upper back down to his stomach. A grunt escaped him as he grasped the man by the wrist and slammed it into the nearest solid surface he could find. The impact with the wall sent the knife flying from the man's hand but his other hand twisted the gun out of Porthos' grip.

As his vision wavered a bit the big man realized it was the first intruder he had encountered that now held him at the point of his weapon. The bloody nosed mercenary grinned at him and said something in Spanish.

"Yeah, not helping," Porthos told him, "can't understand a word you're sayin'."

He glanced back at the sound of footfalls on the stairs and wasn't surprised to find three unknown men making their way down to them. The man before him grinned wider as he locked eyes with Porthos and steadied his weapon.

Two more gunshots rang out in the farmhouse.

* * *

He padded into his room, damp hair clinging to his neck and loosely curling up at his forehead as they dried. Hobbling slightly Aramis dropped at the edge of his bed and examined the scars at the bottom of his feet. They didn't seem worsened by his trek yesterday but were painfully protesting the miles he had covered on foot before tackling the hill.

With a shrug he pulled his shoes closer, stuck his feet in them and quickly tied the laces. Porthos was waiting for him in the kitchen and Aramis was not going to abandon him to cleanup duty. He planned to help sort the mess and then sit with his feet up while he watched Porthos bake. If that meant he could polish off at least half the first batch of cupcakes before his friend would be the wiser then Aramis could simply claim it a coincidence.

Congratulating himself on the masterful plan Aramis was about to open the door to his room but his hand stopped inches away from the wood. A warning coiled in his gut, like it did when his mark would spend too long a time in cover and away from the range of his scope, something was off although he couldn't decide what.

It was that momentary pause that allowed him to step back as the door swung open, and it was simply muscle memory that followed as he ducked under one armed hand pulling it forwards and down even as he rammed his elbow in the sternum of the man following behind. A loud grunt preceded the clatter of a weapon dropping and Aramis wasted no time to kick it away, catching the ankle of the first intruder as he did. The man fell on his knees and hoisting him up by his collar Aramis left him unconscious with a well placed punch.

His breath left him in a whoosh as a meaty fist connected with his side and Aramis staggered back into the room.

Bracing a hand on his bed he forced himself to stay upright as his opponent moved closer. The man was almost the same size as Porthos and built like a small mountain, so Aramis was not surprised that he had recovered quickly from an otherwise well aimed hit. And as he pressed an arm over his ribs he could understand now why the hit had hurt so much.

The second attacker snarled a series of choice expletives in Spanish alluding Aramis' parentage. It drew a snort from him as Aramis found his balance with one hand on the bedside table.

"You should be careful with your words mi amigo," he grinned as he grasped the lamp, "there are young ears in the house,"

He slammed the lamp across the man's face, light bulb and shade and all.

As the large man fell in a heap before him Aramis looked up to find another man standing in the doorway. Gun leveled at his chest as he spared a glance to his fallen comrade before depressing the trigger.

Even as Aramis dropped to escape the shot he realized that it had gone wide, because his attacker had suddenly crumpled where he stood.

In his place was a woman.

Dark hair caught back in a ponytail and green cat like eyes regarded him coolly.

Aramis watched her step over the man, pluck his weapon from his lax grip and take an aim at the unconscious man's head.

"What are you doing?" he was on his feet and pulling her away.

"I'm making sure he's no longer a problem," M'Lady replied.

"You are not killing under my roof,"

"Bossy, bossy," M'Lady retrieved a couple of zip-ties from her pockets as gunshots echoed downstairs.

Aramis didn't spare her a glance as he made to move past her but she grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Yet he had caught the glimpse of three men coming out of d'Artagnan's room near the staircase and unfortunately they had seen him as well.

"Porthos is down there –"

"Tie them up," M'Lady snapped as she shoved him back and locked the door.

Aramis clenched his jaw shut and forced down the rising panic bubbling in his chest. He had to believe that his brothers were fine, that they could take what the situation was throwing at them. He had to trust them to hold their own.

Plucking the thin plastic strips from the woman's hand he hurried to secure the men in his room, zip-tying their hands and feet as the men outside kicked at his door. He glanced up as the woman pulled aside the curtains from the window and threw it open.

"C'mon,"

"I'm not leaving Porthos behind,"

"We're going around from the outside genius," she smirked at him, climbed onto the windowsill, grabbed its edge and disappeared in a plunge.

He followed her lead just as the door to his room opened with a resounding bang.

Aramis rolled over his shoulder as he hit the ground outside and broke into a sprint to escape the gunfire raining from the open window. He stopped beside M'Lady as she rounded the corner of the building and scanned the front porch.

"Care to explain?" he said.

"Would you rather I do that while they gun down your precious Porthos?" she smirked at him and pulled out one of the weapons she had picked off from the men in Aramis' room, "let's see to our guests first hmm?"

She pressed the gun in his hand. It was a snug fit, the alternatively grainy and smooth surface filling in the curve of his hand and the weight of the weapon a familiar promise. He was checking the chamber and the number of bullets almost out of reflex.

Slip, slide, lock.

… _he is staring down his weapon at the slumped form; his father's face is leeched of colour, lips pale and thin and pursed in a grim line. The man is clutching his thigh, the shattered kneecap spreading a red pool under him. But there is triumph in his father's gaze, a smug gleam in the blue of his eyes._

 _In the end he had made him a murderer, he had made him his son after all._

" _Just do it Rene," he says, "just finish this," …._

…Aramis swallowed hard to keep check of the bile rising up his throat. Fear of the precipice he had reached once churned in his stomach and he shook his head, pressing the weapon back in the hand of the woman beside him.

If M'Lady noticed the cold sweat breaking over him she didn't point it out and tucked the gun in her belt before moving out of their hiding spot. There were no more men in sight and since the three in his room weren't following them down the window, Aramis assumed that they were taking the stares.

It struck him like a bolt of lightning that they would be heading for Porthos.

He crossed the porch, was through the main door and in the foyer in seconds; stopping short at the scene that greeted him. Porthos had his hand pressed flat against the wall he was leaning on, while a man aimed his weapon at him even as three more armed men made their way down the stairs behind his brother.

Threat.

Identify, evaluate, resolve.

Aramis didn't even glance at the woman beside him as he plucked the extra weapon from her belt, took aim and fired two consecutive shots between one breath and another. He lowered the weapon, not bothered by the whiff of heat at its muzzle that spoke of violence.

From beside him M'Lady smirked as she walked ahead. Stepping over the man with the bleeding shoulder, she moved ahead to secure the two men who had tumbled down the stairs after Aramis had shot the man on the front in the knee.

"Thought you were upstairs," Porthos grinned at him.

His friend pushed away from the wall and Aramis' eyes zeroed in on the red stain spreading at his side.

"Porthos…"

His heart stuttered, his throat closed up and Aramis wasn't aware that he had moved.

But he had.

His trembling fingers were stained red at the tips when his brain caught up with his eyes.

"N-no, please Porthos, please," his breathing picked up its pace.

A large warm hand grasped his; another tipped his face up until his foggy view was filled with the dark eyes of his brother.

Eyes that were alight with life and full of concern.

"Not dying 'Mis," Porthos told him, " 'tis just a scratch,"

It was not a scratch, it was a long bloody gash winding from his back to his stomach and Aramis clutched the wrist of the hand that held his face. The steady beat under his fingers loosened the fear enclosing like a vice around his chest and he let out a shaky breath.

His brother was alive, not dying but still bleeding.

He needed to move.

"Keep talking," Aramis said, "just keep talking,"

"Not a problem," Porthos said, "at least d'Art and Constance weren't caught in this. But I think we should send someone out to fetch them back,"

Aramis nodded as he took Porthos' weight when he stumbled.

"He'd be mad if we didn't let him know. And we have to check on Athos too,"

"He's at the pool with Raoul," Aramis said, "I don't think the guest houses were targeted."

"I don't think so," M'Lady spoke up as she turned away from the bound intruders.

She had added duct tape on the mouth to the ensemble, effectively leaving the men squirming like worms.

Aramis' grip flexed on Porthos' arm as he guided him to the sofa in the lounge, sparing a glance to the unconscious man there before he glanced towards the woman. Aramis crouched before Porthos and tore into his shirt to get a better look at the wound.

"Explain," he said.

"I think they came after Raoul."

"How did you come to that conclusion?" Porthos asked.

Aramis caught the hitch in his breath as he pressed at particularly deep point in the gash that was still bleeding sluggishly.

"I saw them taking him and Athos,"

Aramis clamped down at the point where the wound still bled and frowned up at the woman. He didn't trust this woman but there was a niggling fear at the back of his mind that she might be telling the truth. Had Athos been around he would have been here by now, he would have come to check on them the second he would have heard the gunshots.

He glanced to Porthos and found the big man tied in the same thoughts.

"Why are they after Raoul?" Porthos asked.

"And where did they take the two of them," Aramis added.

"It's the work of an old acquaintance of mine," she toed the wriggling man near her feet, "as for where they took them, I think I can make one of them talk."

Aramis caught like the gleam in her eyes; it was cruel and promised answers and he would never admit to her that he was tempted. If torture was the way to get to those he loved away from danger then Aramis was not above from using it.

He looked to his brother suddenly when Porthos' hand came over his own.

"Don't," said his brother.

"I –"

"Don't go down that path," Porthos said, "Athos can hold his own until we get to him,"

A grim smile played on Aramis' lips. Even if he veered off, he could always trust his brothers to set him right. He pushed down the desire go out with all the fire power he had and burn down the world until he had found their brother and nephew. Athos would be fine; there was no other way Aramis would see this solved.

He looked up when the cook rushed in through the main door followed by her helper Senora Aleta. The old cook's eyes were wide and her breath was coming in ragged puffs as the woman by her side steadied her.

"Senor Rene someone stole the horses, I called Senor Alvaro already - he is on his way, " Senora Maria announced, "poor Berto's throwing up in there saying he was drugged and oh –!"

She gasped at the sight of scattered wounded men.

All eyes turned to the main door as the beat of horse hooves echoed in the silence that followed. Aramis pushed Porthos back down when he made to stand up and picking up the weapon he had taken from M'Lady he motioned for the staff to get inside.

Cautiously he moved ahead into the porch and broke into a jog when he saw the riders.

Tucking the weapon in his belt at the small of his back he hurried over to help down Constance, her alarming pallor spiking worry in his heart. But it was the sight of d'Artagnan, swaying in the saddle with the side of his face caked with patches of red earth that frightened him.

Calling Senora Maria he handed Constance to her as he reached up for his brother.

"D'Art?"

"Aramis? You have to – there were men –"

"We met already," Aramis offered him a small smile, "Come on down from the horse now,"

" 'tis a good horse,"

"I'm sure," he braced the younger man as he dismounted.

"We're friends now,"

"That's good to hear," he steadied his brother who swallowed convulsively.

D'Artagnan groaned as squeezed his eyes shut, leaning into Aramis' hand at the side of his neck. The dry heat of the skin under his hand was far from ideal as far as the older man was concerned. He gently began steering the boy inside but d'Artagnan dug his heels.

"No, hafta tell you –" he swallowed, "they came from the hill,"

D'Artagnan groaned as he bent and vomited.

He shuddered and emptied the contents of his stomach until he was left dry heaving. Aramis waited him out, rubbing his too hot back and reining in the worry thumping in his veins.

"Sshhh… c'mon d'Art, you're done, that's it," Aramis eased him straight and carefully maneuvered him inside.

He placed him beside Porthos and took in the mess that was the main hall. Aramis asked Senora Maria to get him the first aid box and call the emergency services.

"And no you cannot torture people either," he turned to M'Lady, "you can get the horse ready for us to get to the hill, there'll still be one left in the stables and on the way I'd like to know who this acquaintance of yours is. And no Porthos you are not coming with that wound, it'll bleed worse."

"I –" They began in unison.

"We need to get going if there's to be a chance to help Athos," Aramis shook his head and arched a brow towards the once-upon-a-time wife of his friend, "you do know how to saddle a horse right?"

"Of course,"

He ignored the bite in her words and took the wet cloth from Senora Aleta and dabbed the cut on d'Artagnan's face where he sat limp on the sofa.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We were attacked," it was Constance who replied as she took the wet cloth Senora Aleta offered her, "he tried to fight them off and I was left unconscious," her nose wrinkled, "I think it was chloroform,"

It took an effort to not growl at the audacity of it. Aramis bit his cheek to keep his focus as anger simmered to the surface. How dare someone come into his house and hurt his family.

He knew Porthos was watching him carefully and ignored his brother's concerned frown as he took the first aid box from Senora Maria. It was strangely soothing to be able to at least partially patch up his brother's wounds, cleaning and taping them up with bandages before they could be carted off to the hospital.

He got to his feet and glanced at the three severely wounded intruders, it was that deep seated, annoying voice in the back of his mind that could not let him leave them unattended. With a shake of his Aramis resigned himself to the task.

Porthos grinned at him when he was done wrapping the wounds of their attackers.

"Don't," he snapped at him.

"As you wish," Porthos grinned even wider.

"Your carriage awaits princess," M'Lady sauntered in.

"I'm coming too," Porthos made to get up.

"We have one horse Porthos," Aramis reminded him, "and you're wounded. Keep an eye of d'Artagnan for me."

"I 'm fine," the younger man glared blearily.

"I know you are, just keep drinking and make sure Constance doesn't sleep alright?"

"And I'll make sure he doesn't slip off into unconsciousness," Constance nodded.

" 'Mis…"

Aramis turned to his brother with an exasperated eye roll but his retort died on his lips at the worry he found there. He knew how difficult it was to stay behind but he had learned the hard way, he had understood only recently that sometimes you have to put your faith in someone else. Sometimes you have to stand down and trust your brothers to carry you.

"I –"

"You've got this," Porthos nodded.

* * *

He kept an eye on his son. His horse remained neck to neck with Renard's and from the corner of his eye Athos waited for any sign that Raoul was coming around. His only solace was that the boy was alive, but the fear rooted deeper in his heart as he remained unconscious.

He jerked his horse to slow down when Renard slowed to a trot.

"Hmmm, I thought they'd still be here," he looked around.

Athos raised a questioning brow but refused to honour the man with inquiring words.

"I left them here, my witnesses." Renard told him gleefully, "a young man and a woman, guess they'd come around quickly."

Fear dropped like a stone down his stomach and Athos' grip tightened around the reins.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I didn't kill 'em if that's what you're implying,"

If the man hadn't been holding his son up Athos would have tackled him then and there. As they began to ascend the trail on the hill, he ignored the yellow grin focused his way and glanced down at Raoul. His heart skipped a beat when those eyes fluttered open. Raoul groaned and tried to curl into himself.

"Dad?" he whispered.

"I'm here," Athos pulled his horse closer to Renard's, "I'm here Raoul, it's alright."

"Don't feel good,"

"That's the drug talking," Renard grinned.

Raoul stilled. He turned to look around at the man before he moaned softly and turning to his side threw up on the man's shoe. Loud cursing filled the air as Renard picked the boy up from under his arms and away from himself.

"Let me take him," Athos said, fear cutting into his heart that the man would hurt his boy, "let him ride with me."

"So you can turn tail and head back?"

"I won't," Athos' eyes were on his son, "I'll ride a step ahead and you can keep your eyes and weapon on me all the time."

He hoped against hope that the man would agree and Athos' breath caught in his chest when Renard swung the boy around. He only exhaled when he was able to take his son in his arms, steadying himself in the saddle as he kept his horse in a trot.

Athos was only too happy to pull his horse a little ahead of Renard; he feared he would punch the man if he had to look at his face.

"There you go, you're alright," he wrapped an arm around his son.

"Where're we going?" the boy clutched Athos' arm that had come around him.

"We'll know when we get there,"

Raoul turned to look at him, his eyes wide but his voice uncannily steady when he spoke.

"You're not giving me away are you?" he asked.

Athos' heart faltered, missed a few beats at the earnest question in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Never," Athos told him, forced himself to look into those young eyes, "I'm never giving you away and neither will your uncles."

Raoul smiled and turned to look ahead, melting into his father's hold. Athos promised himself to prove it to the boy; he would not let anyone take him away. His mind raced back to his brothers in the farmhouse and he held on to the grim hope that his brothers were fine and on their way to help him. He had to buy some time, he to keep within range and trust his brothers to come for them.

Athos looked ahead and found them nearing the ledge where they had found Aramis the day before. The empty bottle of wine reflected the sunlight where it lay a little way away from the grave of his friend's mother. Athos couldn't believe that it had only been a day since then.

"We leave the horses here," Renard called out.

It was around the shoulder of the hill with the hilltop looming ahead.

Athos dismounted and helped his son down, only to find the child swaying on his feet. He picked him up and glared at the man in a dare to tell him otherwise. But Renard shrugged and motioned with his gun for them to move along.

The trek up was harder since there were no trails left; the loosely packed earth kept rolling away under his feet threatening to trip him at the slightest chance. Heat prickled on his face and the dry air cut into his airways as Athos gathered his thoughts to form a plan.

"Raoul? Are you awake?" he rubbed his son's back.

He felt the nod against his face.

"Can you run?" Athos asked, "Can you run down this hill."

Another nod.

"When I tell you to, you run back the way we've come alright?"

Raoul pushed away from him and slid down. Athos let him fall in step beside him, clutching at his hand. He traced the boy for any sign of the previous wobbliness but was surprised when his son looked up at his face.

Raoul shook his head at him.

Athos quirked a brow.

"Not leaving you," Raoul said.

Athos opened his mouth then closed it. His mind drew a blank at the grim determination in the young eyes and he shook his head slowly.

Rendered speechless by a five years old.

The corner of his lips lifted in a smile and he picked up his son again. This time he gave him a squeeze and as the boy rested his chin on his shoulder he pressed his lips to the side of the damp head.

"Please," he said, "do this for me."

Raoul frowned at him but nodded before sliding out of his hold again.

They made to the hilltop and Athos realized why they had left the horses behind. Even if they would have somehow coaxed the animals up to the crest they would have been useless after that. The hilltop was slightly flat and dotted with a few trees, sparse shrubs and a smattering of tightly packed earth pretending to be rocks, but the slope on the other side was steeper. As they moved across the summit towards the other side Athos realized that the nearest incline downwards was sharp and there was a chunk of the hill missing after a distance; the jagged edge gaping over a sheer drop down.

"We go that way," Renard pointed towards the right.

"Your employer is waiting down there," Athos said.

"With the mode of our transportation,"

"What did she promise you?"

"That's none of your business,"

"I could offer you more,"

"I doubt it," Renard stopped in his tracks to sneer at him.

Athos turned on his heels, grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the weapon and punched Renard across the face.

"Run!" he told Raoul.

He didn't give the man a chance to recover and landed another hit across his temple before he kneed him in the gut. Drawing back his fist again Athos let all the hate he felt for the man push behind the force of the next punch and felt him go slack.

Breathing heavily he dropped the man and looked for Raoul.

His heart dropped to his feet at the sight of the woman gripping the boy by the back of his collar.

"Impressive," she said.

Athos was tempted to reach for Renard's weapon but she had the muzzle of her gun pressed into Raoul's back.

"Who are you?" Athos asked.

"Catharine," the blonde replied with a smirk, "also known as The Comtesse."

M'Lady, The Duchess and now The Comtesse, Athos could see the pattern and he suddenly understood what this was about. He just couldn't understand why his wife wouldn't reach out to meet their son like a normal human being.

"She sent you," he ground out.

"As if she could," Catharine gave a small breathy laugh, "Au contraire, I'm here to collect her one weakness." She pulled Raoul closer to her, "you know she went renegade for him? Turned her back to the Cardinal? Imagine what she'd do to get him back."

Athos didn't like the glint in her blue eyes.

"How can you be sure that she would come for him?"

"Oh she will," the woman grinned, "that's why I told that idiot over there to leave a witness but he decided it was a good idea to bring one along."

Catharine looked him up and down.

"You're the husband aren't you?"

"What's it to you?"

"You were supposed to be my mark," she said, "I prepared so hard, watched you, read up on you, trailed your coming and goings but do I get the assignment? No, you ruined it all by choosing her,"

Athos wasn't sure if he should be flattered or disgusted.

"Then your grievance is with me, why drag a child into it?"

"My grievance is with HER. I guess it could work," she shrugged a shoulder, "you can tell her who took the boy and if she believes my threats to be empty let her know of the dead men I had left behind."

Athos itched to glance back the way they had come; his brothers should be here by now.

"And I'm supposed to find her?"

"Oh no, you think she wouldn't be watching this one?" Catharine laughed again, "She'd know he's missing."

"As do I," said a voice around the bend.

Athos turned around to stare at Aramis, his eyes going from the deadly grin to the weapon held steady in his friend's hand. If his brother was panicking, it was neatly tucked behind the dangerous darkness lurking in those brown eyes.

"Although I must inform you the men at the farmhouse are not as dead as you'd like," Aramis went on, "even the ones you sent. A little banged up I assure you, but that's it."

"And who're you?"

"Someone who'll add a hole to that pretty little head of yours,"

Athos stiffened.

He knew that his brother could easily shoot down the woman before she could pull the trigger of her own weapon. He could save Raoul in a blink, a huge part of Athos wanted him to take the shot, but another, the father in him didn't want his son to witness something this violent and it struck him suddenly that he didn't want Aramis to be burdened by the act either.

"Let him go," Aramis walked up to the woman, not glancing towards Athos on his way.

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

Aramis looked down at the boy between them. He lowered his weapon and tucked it in his belt.

"Not in front of him,"

Athos let go a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Then what?" Catharine frowned.

"Well I don't hit women," Aramis shrugged and Athos' eyes widened imperceptible as he saw it at the last second, "but she would love to have a go,"

M'Lady yanked The Comtesse' armed hand back and landed a fist across her face even as she twisted her arm to make her drop the weapon.

Athos eyes however drew to his son and he met the boy half way in an embrace that lifted Raoul off the ground. The boy clung to him and wriggled to press closer, his heart thumping wildly against Athos' chest.

"It's over, it's over," he murmured, "it's over…"

Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder and swallowing the lump rising in his throat he yanked his friend in an embrace as well. An undignified snort escaped him at the yelp of surprise that erupted from his brother.

But Athos was too happy to have his family safe and within arm's reach.

As Aramis pulled away and Raoul once again slid down from Athos' hold the three of them turned to the women. M'Lady was tying Catharine's hands behind her back. The woman spat blood and blew the fringes of blonde hair from her rapidly puffing eye.

"You should have snapped my neck when you had the chance," she hissed.

"Not in front of him," M'Lady nodded towards the boy.

Catharine grinned.

Athos caught the wild look in her eyes a second too late.

He moved to block the piece of hard packed earth she had kicked towards the boy.

Pain bloomed in his arm where it hit but it was enough to unbalance him.

The earth under his feet slid out.

He slipped with Raoul a second behind him.

And Aramis dove after them.

* * *

It was instincts that pushed him down the slope.

The steepness and gravity did the rest.

He hadn't expected the speed with which he slid down but Aramis was well aware of the sheer drop they were heading towards. His eyes searched for any form of hold, shoes digging in loose earth to slow him down, even as he reached for Athos and Raoul.

He grabbed the boy by his shirt and winding an arm around his waist tucked him close before grasping Athos' stretching hand in his other. The world still slipped by like rapids in a river and empty air awaited them at the end.

Everything came to a jolting halt as Aramis' heel struck the dead root at the lip of the fall.

He dug his heels in and leaned back, trying his best to distribute the weight as he held on to the boy on one side with Athos half hanging over the edge on the other. He could tell his brother was scrabbling for a foot hold in the face of the cliff where his legs were hanging in the air and gave his arm a jerk.

Athos' dust streaked face turned to him.

"Don't move," Aramis breathed out, "It's loose earth, don't move."

Athos stopped.

Aramis could feel the slight give in the root he had wedged his foot against. The shower of dirt and stones as the edge crumbled a little under Athos' weight echoed in his ears even as Raoul breathed in the side of his neck. The boy had his arms wrapped firmly around Aramis' neck and he was silently thankful for that.

At least the boy wasn't dangling on the edge like his father.

Aramis glanced down to Athos.

Blue eyes met brown.

He could read the plea in there, could tell what Athos was thinking. It was in the way his gaze shifted to the boy in Aramis' arms, it was in the pupils expanded in silent fear and the lips pursed in a thin line. Athos was begging him to let him go and save his son.

"Shut up," Aramis ground out, "just shut up."

"I didn't say anything,"

That wry smile made him want to punch Athos in the face and pull him in a hug.

"We're all getting out of this," Aramis told him.

"Yes you are," it was M'Lady.

Aramis and Athos shared a glance before looking to the woman. She was easing down in a controlled slide with a rope tied about her waist. Aramis' eye widened at the sight of it and an incredulous laugh bubbled in his chest.

"You brought a rope?" he grinned, "why?"

"You asked me to prepare the horse and a lady is never half prepared," she told him as she drew parallel.

She reached out her arms towards the boy.

"I'll take Raoul before sending the rope down to you,"

Aramis nodded even when the boy shook his head.

" 'm staying,"

"You really can't," Aramis tried to keep the strain out of his voice, he was pretty sure the root under his heel had tipped a little.

"You won't lemme go right Uncle 'Ramis?"

"I won't buddy," he looked to Athos for help, "but you have to let go of me and go back up."

Before Athos could say a word it was the woman who reached out to rub the boy's back.

"Raoul do you remember me?" she asked.

The boy ventured to pull his face out of the side of Aramis' neck and stared at the woman.

"Ms. Winters," he said.

"That's me, and I give you my word that I will see you safe up there," she said, "I'll even make sure these two get back to you. Now you know I keep my word right?"

Raoul looked from her to Aramis to Athos.

"I brought you to your father once and I'll try my best to do so again," M'Lady said.

Aramis felt the boy shift in his hold and leaned back to let him crawl into the woman's arms. The sudden displacement of weight had him reaching out with his free hand to dig his fingers in the dirt.

It didn't stop Athos from sliding down a little further and pulling Aramis along with him.

Inched a bit closer the edge the two of them watched the woman and the boy crawl up the slope and disappear beyond the edge of the top. Their relived sighs were in sync.

"What are the chances that she won't be coming back for us?" Athos asked.

"I think she'll help us for Raoul's sake," Aramis grinned, "but as long as she does help, I'm not complaining."

A layer of dirt sifted somewhere by Aramis' head, the dry rustle loud in his ear. The tangled root against his heel pulled a little more out of the soil as Athos slipped a little further and he got pulled down a little more. Aramis dared not breathe fully and concentrated on Athos' hand gripping his tightly.

"Aramis?"

So much was spoken in that one word. The fear in the pitch of Athos' voice and the guilt of dragging him down in the soft inflections of his name knocked the breath out of him. Aramis let his head fall back against the dirt, blinking up at the clear blue sky.

"I know," he said.

"Maybe you should –"

" Don't," Aramis said and grit his teeth when the sound of more dirt spraying down the drop reached him," I can't let you go Athos, don't ask me to do that."

He curled his fingers tighter around his friends' hand, their palms slick with sweat.

"I don't think washing will save my shirt," Athos said.

"We'll burn it," Aramis offered.

"And add to this heat? No thank you."

Aramis huffed and grinned, his eyes brightening at the sight of the rope slithering down to them. He reached out with his free hand, fingers stretching but falling short. For a second he wondered if it was a cruel joke on M'Lady's part but then he realized he had shifted further down towards the edge from where he had been.

"If you let go for a second –"

"I will kick you in the face Athos," Aramis growled, "you're right in my range and knocking you out is becoming an increasingly appealing idea."

"So what then? We both go down?" Athos snapped.

"Or we both get saved," he said.

Athos eyes widened, a soft smile played at the corner of his lips.

And the chunk of earth under his waist gave way.

The drag was swift and powerful.

The root against his foot gave away and Aramis scrambled to dig his heel in the dirt.

For a split second he wondered if this was it, he could feel Athos trying to untangle their fingers and held on so tight in return that he felt the bones shift in his brother's hand.

The world stopped rushing and the sound of their harsh breaths filled the air. Aramis forced his eyes open and took in the sight of Athos where his elbows were pressed against the edge of the break, while the rest of him was out of view, hanging over the drop.

Face streaked with grime under fringes of sweat damp hair regarded him with clear blue eyes.

"You were saying?" Athos drawled.

Aramis snickered.

"If it's any consolation I don't think letting you go at this point will save me," he said.

He was on his front now, facing the open air beyond Athos' shoulder as he lay on the lip of the fall. He didn't see the woman who appeared at the top of the hill

"Are you two trying to get yourselves killed?" her voice reached down to them.

"Because there are no easier ways then this," Athos arched a brow although Aramis was sure that M'Lady could neither see nor hear them.

He was about to tell him so when something flicked his leg. Turning his face as much as he dared, he caught sight of the rope end by his knee and Aramis reached for it with his free hand. His fingers grazed the frayed end and he slowly began to shift in a semi-circle to get a better hold on it.

And then the earth dropped out from under him.

Air rushed out of his lungs and the sunlight blinded him.

He reached out in a last attempt for something to keep them from plummeting.

… _the fire was rushing towards them even as he reached out. There was nothing he could do, he couldn't reach his brothers. The flames curled higher, his arm taut, his fingers stretched but he couldn't reach them…_

A moment of weightlessness engulfed him.

And then the world stopped with a harsh jerk as fire licked at his hand and wrist.

A jagged groan filled the air.

Panting like he had run a marathon, Aramis opened his eyes at the sound. He looked down first, his stomach lurching at the expanse rolling out beneath him, over a hundred feet down. But then he focused on the reassuring weight of Athos on his arm.

He sought his brother's face but Athos' head was bent, chin resting on his chest and his fingers lax against Aramis' arm. It took Aramis a second to realize that he had grabbed his brother by the wrist and his heart clenched at the odd way Athos' arm linked to him.

His shoulder was dislocated.

"Athos?" his voice came out hoarse.

There was a taste of dust on his lips.

"Athos?" he tried again.

Aramis looked back up where he had somehow wrapped the rope around his hand and wrist.

His eyes flicked back down when he felt Athos shift.

He hated the pain he was causing his brother but refused to let go of his arm.

"Can you reach for my hand with your other one?" he asked.

Athos' grunt wasn't lost at him.

Blinking the sweat from his eyes Aramis ignored the strain burning in his shoulders and up his neck. Pain stabbed in his back and jabbed viciously behind his eyes. He wondered what to do now. He was hanging in the air, with only one hand secured by the rope when he needed desperately to ease the pressure off of Athos' dislocated shoulder. But there was no way he could pull them up.

And then as though from a breeze of good luck amidst all their troubles the rope around his hand and wrist tugged up.

It kept on pulling, digging and cutting in his skin, straining his shoulder in a blessed torment that delivered the two of them from the edge where they were suspended. And it still dragged them up against the slope until the flat of the hilltop was under him.

The second the rope went slack Aramis reached out with both hands and hooking them under Athos' arms tugged him up to the hilltop. Pulling him up until his brother was sitting between his bent knees with his back pressed to Aramis' chest.

Their breathing ragged and heartbeats running amok.

Aramis snaked an arm around Athos waist and just held on. He had no idea where his own trembling began and Athos' ended. They simply pressed close in relief and fear, shaking like leaves in a gale.

"Let's not tell Porthos about this," Aramis muttered in Athos' hair.

"And d'Artagnan," Athos whispered back.

"Dad?"

They both squinted at the shadow that fell across them a second before the boy had launched himself at his father. Aramis took the chance to untangle his hand from the rope and as Athos held his boy in a one armed embrace, he traced the other end of the rope to the pair of horses that had apparently pulled them up.

M'Lady was freeing the animals from the rope and caught his eye.

"Thank you," said Aramis.

"I wouldn't have you make a liar out of me before Raoul," she said.

Her eyes flicked towards the father and son clinging to each other and Aramis saw something flash in her eyes that he couldn't comprehend. When her gaze shifted to him it struck a link with some unknown synapses in his brain.

Aramis understood, he just didn't know what.

M'Lady offered him a curt nod before she turned back to the horses.

Aramis was distracted by the small arms that threw themselves around his neck. Even through the elated welcome of the boy, he didn't miss the way his brother was cradling his arm close to his chest.

"C'mon Raoul, let's get these horses back down and check on our prisoners," M'Lady called to him.

Aramis felt rather then saw the rigidness in his brother's spine.

But Athos gave a nod to his son.

"You should go help Ms. Winters," he said.

Aramis waited until the other two were out of sight before he extracted himself from behind Athos. He instead came to crouch before his friend and waited until the blue eyes settled on him.

"We need to keep it immobile until we can get you some medical help," he said.

"And here I thought you qualified for that,"

"Not really," Aramis shrugged even as he eased Athos on his back.

He palpated the joint before getting to his feet. Holding the arm carefully he braced his friend with his foot, forcing himself to ignore Athos' flinch at every motion.

"Saved by M'Lady, who'd have thought," Aramis said.

"Don't remind me," Athos groaned.

It turned into a chocked scream as Aramis reduced the shoulder in one fluid motion. Athos cursed under his breath; gasping up at the sky even as his arm was lowered onto his chest.

They waited until Athos could get his feet under him and then made their way down to the trail where M'Lady was waiting for them with Raoul and three horses. Aramis helped her place the unconscious Renard and Catherine on one horse each and forced Athos up the other.

"You won't be able to hold him safe," he argued when Athos insisted that Raoul ride with him.

Instead Aramis picked the boy up and flipped him over his shoulder in a way that had the boy laughing. It was easy to coax the child to cling to his uncle's back, arms around his neck and legs about his waist, attaching like a limpet.

As M'Lady grabbed the reins of two horses, Aramis held on to the one that was carrying Athos.

He could feel his friend's eyes boring down at him, could tell that his brother wanted to protest him carrying the boy, could feel the worry in the gaze fixed on him but Aramis ignored it. He knew it would all hit him eventually, when the rush died down and the dust settled.

But for now he simply chose to dwell on the knowledge that those he called family were safe.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **I am sorry for the delay for this chapter; I'm a horrible person who gets distracted by random story ideas then laments that why there are only 24 hours in a day!**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. The reviews you leave me are stored like my personal nuggets of sunshine to be brought out any time I need cheering up.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm REALLY SORRY for the delay in this chapter; things that needed my attention had piled up and I didn't want to write this chapter in a hurry. This is the last one. THANK YOU, THANK YOU everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. You have given me so much confidence and I cannot ever thank you enough for that. To everyone who had been with me since the previous story I have no words for your continued support except that I send you virtual Du Vallon hugs.**

 **I will be working on a prequel now but can't promise when I'll be posting it.**

 **Until next time...**

* * *

For the first time in his life he understood what Treville went through on behalf of their team and the activities of his company in general; and he had no idea how the man faced this on daily bases. Aramis shifted on his feet and forced his eyes back on Senor what's-his-name who was starting to look peeved. Aramis wasn't faring any better either.

He relaxed his stance a little, reminding himself that the police was not the enemy here even if they were keeping him from checking up on his family.

"That's all I know," he ended his story for the fifth time, although it was the first time in English. The policeman clicked off the recording device to match it later for any discrepancies in the account Aramis had provided in Spanish.

"You're Mr. Sebastian's grandson aren't you?" the white haired policeman looked him up and down, "a spitting image of him you are,"

Even as he nodded Aramis blinked at the mention of his mother's father; sometimes it was easy to forget the importance of that side of his family in the face of his father's. He had no memory of his grandfather. His only references were pictures from his mother's childhood that his father had rid of the house with the rest of her belongings after her death and the ones that he had now come across at the farmhouse.

"He was a good man," said the policeman taking his statement, "We were all shocked by the news of his accident,"

The accident that conveniently ended both his grandparents a year after they had married off their only off-spring; Aramis had a feeling that his father would have had something to do with his. His fists clenched at sides and he pulled back from prodding at the wounds only just closing in his mind.

"Ah there you are!" Senor Alvaro hurried across the parking lot.

Aramis found his gaze flicking back to the hospital entrance behind the man and hoped that he was coming with some news. It was only through Senor Alvaro's intervention that the police had waited until they had all reached the hospital in the city and that was when Aramis had found himself surrounded with questions.

The only other uninjured witness to this was M'Lady. But his best friend's not-so-dead-wife had disappeared somewhere as the throng of police and paramedics had descended on the farmhouse minutes after Senor Alvaro had pulled in. He was left alone to explain the attempted kidnapping feigning innocence as to Catharine's motives behind the act. Aramis tried not to dwell on why he was covering for the woman who had murdered Thomas. At least this time around no one had died as far as he knew.

"Any news?" he asked Senor Alvaro.

"Not yet," the man shook his head, "but I suppose you can go wait for them in there?"

The end of the question was directed towards the policeman who nodded his assent. Aramis didn't wait to hear what went on between the two men as he turned around and strode towards the emergency room; the doors hissing open as he approached.

Inside was surprising loud and his headache that had been a steady beat picked up its cadence. The rattling whirl of tiny metal tires, the squeak of shoes on the tiled floor and the sound of incessant chatter crashed into him like a wave. Aramis swayed a little as he came to a stop between the rows of chairs. Someone bumped into him as people hurried past and he swallowed down the abrupt urge to throw up as the sharp smell of antiseptic hit him.

Somewhere a child wailed and Aramis flinched.

Taking a measured breath he pulled back from the pit of fear opening under him. There were things he had to do, people he had to look out for, now was not the time to let go. Pushing back the irrational panic and dread threatening to drown him, he pulled to the front of his mind the reality that his friends were not in imminent danger.

When he moved again he was back in control and Aramis was suddenly glad that he had learned this skill very early in life. A bitter smile curled on his face. There were uses in this world even for poisons.

Following the directions from the helpdesk he moved down the corridor towards the waiting area outside of the ward where his family was being treated. The hard plastic chairs had never looked so inviting and he flopped down in the nearest empty one.

The sharp jolt of pain between his shoulder-blades made him catch his breath and Aramis waited as the throb rolled down his back and out to his fingertips. Leaning forward with his elbows pressed on his knees he drew both hands through his hair and lightly shook out the dust from his curls.

He paused in his ministrations, head still bent and eyes fixed on the spot between his feet,

"Thought you'd be half way out of the country by now," he said but didn't look up.

"Things that I start, I like to see them through."

"Your disappearance act at the farmhouse says otherwise," he glanced sideways at the woman who had come to perch in the chair beside him.

"The crowd wasn't to my taste," M'Lady shrugged a shoulder and crossed her leg one over the other, "you forgot to mention my involvement,"

Straightening back he flashed a feral grin to the woman at his side.

"You're not that memorable," he said.

He wasn't surprised when she didn't look away. A slow smile appeared on M'Lady's face and she cocked her head to the side. There was a challenge in her green cat like eyes that still held his gaze.

"You named Raoul the beneficiary of the Trust you had set up for your child," she said.

His heart still clenched at the mention of his loss but he kept his face blank. Aramis raised a brow in question, not about how she had found this out but what she meant to do with this information. He had not told Athos yet, waiting for the right moment on which his friend could throw a fit and the papers in his face, probably along with a fist.

Aramis decided then and there that he would like to have Porthos on his side before he broke the news to Athos.

"The money isn't from your father's side of the fortune you inherit," she said as she got to her feet, "you've got some good things going for you if you'd only see."

Aramis frowned; he almost thought that she was giving him advice.

When she turned to regard him again it was not M'Lady and it was not Anne; there was too much sadness in her eyes to be either. In her surprisingly steady eyes that looked down at him with a depth of understanding that was both condemning and absolving.

"We are who we are Aramis," she shrugged, "recognize it, embrace it and mold it to be of use the way you want it to."

A lump rose to his throat and Aramis' eyes turned to the floor again as he rubbed the back of his neck. The abrupt aches cropping all over him were no match for the sudden tightness in his chest. Letting go a slow breath he looked up to the woman again.

"Did you murder Thomas on my father's orders?" Aramis had to ask.

"That is a story for another day," she smirked and turned around, "don't you think so Athos?"

Aramis was on his feet as soon as his friend emerged from the doorway behind M'Lady. Moving past her he grasped his brother by the good shoulder as the man pushed away from the support of the doorjamb he had come to lean against. Athos' face was cleaner now and his left arm was resting in a sling, but the subtle wobble in his step had Aramis standing by his elbow.

"It doesn't change the fact that you did it," Athos' voice dripped venom.

"Neither does the fact that I saved your life," her smug grin was all teeth before she stepped closer and her fingers traced the side of Athos' face, "or the fact that I entrust you with the one I would lay down any life for."

Aramis looked away; he couldn't stand the painful rigidness with which Athos held himself motionless, almost as if he wanted to lean into her touch.

And then she was pulling back.

"Until we meet again," M'Lady wriggled her fingers in farewell before she turned and walked away.

As the swish of her ponytail disappeared around the corner Aramis turned to find his brother going dangerously pale. With an arm around his shoulders he pulled his friend close and helped him to the chair. Athos opened his eyes once he was eased down and regarded his friend's dust creased form.

"You look like a ghost," he said.

"And you look like you've seen one;" Aramis smirked lightly, "so what's the verdict?"

"Nothing new; medicine and rest."

The giggle from behind him cut off any reply that Aramis could form and he turned just in time to catch the bag of uncoordinated limbs that fell against him. D'Artagnan's feet scrabbled against the tiled floor to gather purchase as he looked up at Aramis with a bright grin, one that should have hurt given the swelling on his face. But the dark eyes were a bit hazy and roaming over the ceiling beyond.

"Pretty lights, pretty, pretty…" said the younger man before his eyes slid to his friend's face, "Aramis! I've missed you!"

D'Artagnan pushed away from him before falling forward again in an attempted hug, long arms windmilling at the move and Aramis caught one before his brother could tumble sideways. Wrapping it across his shoulders he caught d'Artagnan by the waist in an effort to keep him steady.

He was rewarded by effectively being captured in a headlock, choking on his friend's arm. Because the second his knees straightened under him, d'Artagnan was using the hand of the arm draped across Aramis' shoulder to poke at the stitched wound on his face.

Aramis pulled away the fingers.

"Let it be, it'll probably scar as it is." He warned.

"Constance says it makes me look rugged,"

"About as rugged as a floppy eared pup wearing an eye-patch,"

"Yeah…HEY!"

His young friend moved out of his hold in an ungainly indignation and backed into Athos who had taken to his feet. Aramis caught the rather wide-eyed look on his brother's face when d'Artagnan thumped into him, turned around and threw his arms around the older man's neck.

"I don't want you to ever go splat off of a hill Athos," d'Artagnan told him.

"Thank you?"

"You should always wear the puffy itchy vest Constance stuck me in,"

Aramis couldn't help but match the grin on Athos' face but he didn't miss the flinch in his friend's eyes every time their young brother jostled his shoulder. Prying d'Artagnan away from Athos he turned to the small group that had followed the younger man out.

"Pain meds?" he asked.

"Pain meds," Porthos nodded.

"He's having an interesting reaction to them and the dose wasn't even that high" Constance replied as she led Raoul to his father who met him halfway, "no lingering affect from the chloroform for us and Porthos here was exceptionally lucky. The doctor's amazed at how the cut was at its most shallow over his spine."

Aramis swallowed hard as he turned to his brother, suddenly needing to see the man alive and upright.

"Told you it was a scratch," Porthos said.

Exhaustion lined his face but his grin was no less bright.

"It was not," Aramis cleared his throat and hefted d'Artagnan straight, "but I'm glad it was where it was,"

"Still, let's avoid taking that chance next time," Athos said as he lifted his hand from his boy's head and reached out to clasp the big man's arm.

Aramis felt rather then saw d'Artagnan roll forward in a clumsy dive, toppling them into each other as he went. His hasty, all encompassing hug had them painfully knocking their heads together especially when the younger man slipped and nearly landed face first on the floor.

"I love you all!" d'Artagnan beamed up at them.

Porthos laughed.

Athos grinned.

And Aramis cursed under his breath as d'Artagnan lost his footing again.

Hooking his hands under the younger man's arms he pulled his brother up against him. Maneuvering him into a position to provide better support was like wrestling with an overfriendly octopus. Pushing down a pointy elbow, Aramis hooked a foot against d'Artagnan's ankle to settle him upright beside him.

"I've got him," he shook his head towards Porthos who came forward to help; "you don't need to reopen your stitches."

"Are you sure?"

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan made to embrace him.

Aramis turned them all the way round to evade that dive.

"Just stay out of arm's reach," he breathed out.

A relieved smile broke on his face at the sight of Senor Alvaro hurrying down the corridor towards them. The sooner they could get back to farm house the sooner he'd have the peace of mind of having his family safe and tucked up before his eyes.

As the small group buckled into Senor Alvaro's van Aramis felt a shiver trail down his spine that had nothing to do with the air-conditioner being switched on. It was the ebbing adrenalin leaving his hands just a little shaky, his limbs feeling just a bit empty and his mind wandering back to all the possibilities that could have happened. Things could have turned out so differently. He could have easily lost any one of them that afternoon.

If he had been a second too late to reach Porthos, or Athos or Raoul; if the men had decided that they didn't want d'Artagnan and Constance as their witnesses, if M'Lady hadn't turned up to help. Every possibility caught in his breath and Aramis pressed back into the seat to keep from trembling. Clenching his hands into fists he looked out the window to distract him from the sudden quiet of the van.

"I'm hungry," d'Artagnan announced suddenly, "I'm so hungry I could eat a –a –"

"A horse?" Athos offered from where he was re-checking Raoul's seatbelt.

"No!" d'Artagnan sat up, "I would never eat Boots!"

Aramis snickered right along with Porthos and Raoul.

"I respect Boots Athos, just like you told me to," d'Artagnan went on, "we're friends now. I would never eat Boots. You were right; I had to respect 'm,"

"And when did you have this rousing discussion about shoes?" Porthos asked.

Athos glared at him.

"And why was I not invited to join in?" Constance wanted to know.

Athos glared at her.

"My Boots' not like Porthos'," d'Artagnan pointed out, "The same colour but not the same – same – uh –"

"Size?" Aramis turned around in his seat.

"Mine's bigger!" d'Artagnan grinned, "But you have bigger feet Porthos so that's alright. My feet aren't as big as yours,"

As if to prove his point he made to raise his foot in the space not really made for the act and ended up kicking the back of Senor Alvaro's seat in the process, bumping the man against the steering-wheel. Porthos hurried to assure him that he didn't need proof and Aramis grinned.

D'Artagnan floating on pain medication was the best distraction he could ask for.

* * *

Never again.

Never again would he go for that long a drive with d'Artagnan on pain medication. The entire ninety-five minutes of the young man's euphoria combined with Raoul's childish enthusiasm and Porthos' and Aramis' devilish encouragement had given him a splitting headache. Athos' ears still rang with the chorus of nursery rhymes that had filled the van.

If he heard even the hum of another jolly tune he would probably break something.

"Your shoulder still troubling you?" Porthos asked from beside him.

They were settling down in the lounge, fed and showered. The farmhouse had been put to right the second the police had allowed the residents back in; for once Porthos had not complained about having the house-staff when they'd been met on their return with the feast Senora Maria had whipped up.

Rubbing his still slightly numbed shoulder joint Athos shook his head.

"It's not my shoulder; your dulcet tones have given me a headache,"

"And now we're about to watch Frozen," Porthos grinned at him.

"Frozen what?"

"You'll see,"

Athos did not like the dimpled grin thrown his way.

The waning evening was still bright enough that they had drawn the curtains in deference to the multiple throbbing heads. Constance and Aramis were setting up the entertainment system while d'Artagnan was sitting on the floor with his back to the sofa, smiling at all and sundry as his head dipped only to jerk up in an effort to stave off sleep.

As the screen lit up to begin Athos turned to the boy melded into his side.

"Are you sure you want to watch this?" he asked quietly.

Raoul nodded.

"We could head up to your room and relax," Athos offered.

"This is good,"

Athos studied his son's profile, the young face calm and eyes bright as they fixed ahead on the action on the screen. He glanced at what had his child enthralled before studying the boy again. There didn't seem to be any lasting fear but Athos was worried.

He knew his son had nightmares often, knew that the boy woke up crying when he did.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked not for the first time.

Raoul shook his head in a distracted sort of way.

"Are you sure?"

The boy looked at him then, with a content smile on his face but his eyes held a touch of wisdom far from his age.

"Uncle 'Ramis asked me that once," he said, "the first time I – when I woke up,"

Athos felt his brows reach up to his hairline. Raoul had never explained his preference for comfort during those spells and he had never pushed for it. But now it seemed the boy was offering him a nugget of insight in his own way.

Athos smiled and nodded.

"And he never asked you after that," it was a statement not a question.

He understood and let the boy get back to his entertainment.

And then the singing started.

He didn't really mind the people who actually had the voice for it but d'Artagnan was going on about snowmen in a warble that bordered on wailing and Athos was sure Porthos was intentionally off-key. He cringed slightly at a particularly harsh pitch and stopped just short of rolling his eyes when Porthos winked at him.

It was then that he noticed it.

Constance had joined her fiancé on the floor but Aramis was nowhere in sight.

The second it registered he found Porthos' eyes meet his own.

"I'll go," he said before the big man could offer.

Going up the stairs he had half a mind to check Aramis' room first but instincts directed him towards the bathroom at the end of the hallway. The door opened abruptly just as he was about to knock on it and he reached out with his good hand when Aramis swayed at the threshold.

" 'thos?" the man blinked, "what're you doing here?" his confused eyes sharpened instantly, "Is everything alright? Porthos? D'Art? Raoul? Constance? Are they –?"

"Fine, they're all fine," Athos squeezed the trembling shoulder.

Aramis nodded, turned around back into the bathroom and bent over the toilet to throw up again. But he only brought up bile. A soft moan escaped him as he wound an arm around his ribcage and leaned against the other hand pressed against the wall.

"How many times?" Athos asked.

" 's fine," Aramis shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, "I think I ate too much,"

Athos helped him ease down to his knees as his brother continued to dry heave. His hand shifted from Aramis' shoulder to the back of his neck and the clammy skin under his palm gave him a pause. The muscles under his hand were pulled taut, fine tremors going through them as his friend's back twitched with an effort to bring up something from the long empty stomach.

"I don't think you ate enough," Athos muttered.

Aramis replied to that with a hacking cough that sounded like it was tearing into his throat.

Athos winced.

As he backed out of the room to call Porthos he was surprised by the speed with which Aramis' hand latched onto his wrist. His brother didn't look up, didn't even glance in his direction from where his head was bent over the toilet.

"Stay," Aramis rasped.

"You don't have to tell me to," he said, but his heart was amazingly lighter for his brother to have voiced it and Athos turned his hand to grip back, "I'm only stepping out to call Porthos. He shouldn't miss this."

Aramis slumped fully onto his rear and leaned back against the wall, head tipping up a bit.

"Let's make it a party then," his lips twitched up even though his eyes were closed.

Athos couldn't help the touch of relief that curled up the corner of his lips despite the condition his friend was in. The pasty hue to his skin and the dark smudges around his eyes spoke loud of the exhaustion that the soft trembling was hinting to; yet he had asked Athos to stay.

They were not the only ones reaching out to him anymore; Aramis was reaching out to them as well.

With smooth light steps Athos crossed the corridor, going only halfway to find Porthos making his way up the stairs.

"Should've seen it coming," muttered the big man.

"I think we caught it in time," Athos shrugged a shoulder.

When they found their friend he was again hunched over the toilet and his shivers had taken on a violent edge. As he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back Athos slid down beside him. And snaking his good arm around his brother's back he tucked Aramis close.

The younger man blinked open his eyes at the sound of the water running and grinned at Porthos as the big man turned to him with a wet cloth.

"I had expected worst," Aramis told him as he took the offered cloth and wiped his face, "Expected it sooner,"

"Trust you to stave off shock by sheer stubbornness," Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Not shock per say, more of a fear I guess," his voice was almost a murmur.

Aramis pressed close into Athos' side, letting the side of his head rest against the man's shoulder. Porthos' eyes lit up, a dimple appearing at the end of his slow smile as he leaned back against the sink behind him. Athos took the still damp cloth and pressed it to the back of his friend's neck, pulling him closer as he did.

Aramis hissed and jerked straight.

"What?" Athos stilled.

"Ow," Aramis said, "ow, ow, ow move your hand Athos."

He immediately pulled it away, raising it in the air as Aramis' own hand hovered over the spot at the side of his chest where Athos had gripped him. Sharing a surprised look with Porthos he hooked an arm under his friend who was trying to curl onto his side. The big man strode forward and pulled Aramis to his feet in one fluid motion, only to close the lid of the toilet and lower him on it.

Aramis let out a low groan, bending forwards.

Athos crouched before him and placing a hand on his shoulder pushed him straighter.

"Porthos?" he said.

"I got it," the big man perched on the edge of the bath tub and hefted up his friend's shirt.

The low whistle he blew out at what he saw was not encouraging.

"That should have been seen to at the hospital,"

"Huh?" Aramis looked at his friend by his side before craning his neck to see what the damage was, "huh," he nodded.

"Eloquent as always," said Athos.

Seeing as his friend was not about to keel over he let him go and turned to inspect the injury. It was spread out over his lower ribs, the deep red and purple stretching out to his side in all its grotesque glory. Athos' fingers hovered over the skin that was giving off low heat.

"How did you not notice it when you showered?" Porthos asked.

"Wasn't paying attention,"

"Clearly," Athos tried to keep the snap from his voice but by the look his friends gave him he could tell he had not succeeded.

It was too bad for them because he was still staring at the deep, almost black spots in the bruising that marked the points where knuckles had made contact. He tried not to imagine what it said about their history that he could actually read a bruise. Rubbing at the twinge in his hurt shoulder he glared at Aramis who had the decency to look sheepish.

" 's not so bad," he said.

"Try again,"

"I didn't notice," Aramis' jaw clenched, "I wasn't hiding it."

If he had been hiding it he wouldn't have brought it to light at all, Athos knew that. It still didn't ease the clenching in his stomach that his friend may have not noticed some other much more serious hurt.

"That's the only injury, I got punched by that giant and that's all," Aramis hurried to add as if he had read his mind, "wouldn't even had hurt that much but my back's sore so that exacerbated it."

Athos wasn't convinced.

"I swear there's nothing else," Aramis raised a hand before looking at it closely.

He grinned suddenly and waved it at Athos.

"Except for this," he said, "rope burn,"

Athos grasped the hand extended towards him and wondered how he had missed the prominent red line going all the way round the hand; it was particularly raw over the wrist. He hadn't even touched it when Aramis yelped in surprise.

"Not broken," Porthos said as he lowered the hem of his friend's shirt.

"A little warning next time," Aramis groused.

"Better there not be a next time," Athos turned the hand in his clasp to the light.

He was surprised when it turned and the long fingers curled around his own wrist. He looked down to find his friend staring at him

"There'll always be a next time," there was a hint of finality in that tone.

Aramis looked from him to Porthos, grasping the big man's arm.

An almost apologetic smile curled on his face although his gaze was steady like a flame in the pitch-black of absolute stillness. Strong, confident, trusting in whatever it was that kept it alight in the face of storms.

"I handed in my resignation when I left London but I hope Treville would take me back when we return," said Aramis, "I don't like seeing you in danger and it's harder to face that now than it had ever been before. I came too close to losing you both – I thought," he shook his head, "I believed that I had lost you both."

His eyes dropped to study some spot on the floor but Athos dared not breathe, neither did Porthos. They simply stared and waited; afraid that the spell, truce, epiphany or whatever else this was it would break if either of them so much as blinked.

Athos could see his friend visibly pull himself back from wherever his mind had wandered to and yet he stood still like the statues lining the corridors of his parents' house.

"But I would be able to cope better with that fear if I can watch your back," Aramis looked from one man to the other, "today when I saw you in danger all that fear, that uncertainty, it all just blanked out against the need to keep you safe. I won't ask you to give up the lives you've built and the danger that comes with it, but I would follow you anywhere to keep you safe in my sight."

This was it.

He was basing it all on them.

He was going to knowingly build his future on their brotherhood.

That was what he believed to be the strongest foundation.

Athos felt Porthos' large hand gripping his arm, the ripple of fine shivers clear in his fingers. And the two of them quietly exhaled in sync at the weight of surrender laid with such trust at their feet.

Something thick and cloying rose to the back of his throat and Athos swallowed audibly. He was sure Porthos' fingers would leave bruises on his arm but he hadn't the heart to break contact from him, not when he needed his brother just as desperately. Needed to remind himself that through all that life had thrown at them they were still there, still together, a bit frayed at the edges but bound tight each other.

Porthos cleared his throat before he spoke.

"And if Treville decides he's gotten tired of your face?" his tone was light, his voice not so much.

It was still probably tangled in the emotions lodged in his throat Athos mused.

Aramis smiled and it had that cocky slant they hadn't seen in half a year, that familiar devil-may-care gleam flashed in his eyes.

"I don't actually need a job money-wise," he said, "I could still shadow you on my own time."

"And follow us around totting a sniper rifle without any legal justification to back it up?"

"Worked for Marsac," Aramis shrugged.

Porthos cuffed him upside the head none too gently.

"Not funny," he growled.

"Wasn't joking," Aramis smirked.

Athos still could not find his voice; it was pinned down by the rock that seemed to have stuck in his throat. He breathed deeply, ears popping with the release of strain and that was when he heard it; muffled slightly by the distance but still clear enough was d'Artagnan howling about letting go. And somewhere in there were Constance and Raoul's voices mingling to add to the horrible din.

It stirred the cloud gathered in Athos' chest and it was bubbling past his lips in helpless chuckles the next second. Athos laughed till he was red in the face, it was insanity he knew that and it shifted to the other two like every other disease they had shared in their childhood.

Together in that bathroom the three of them laughed, at the shadows of their past and in the face of their future. They laughed until their lungs hurt and their faces were wet. And they only laughed harder.

* * *

He woke up with a snort.

Blinking in the dim light he raised his hand to rub at his eyes but stopped abruptly.

The side of his face felt like a melon.

An exceptionally ripe, hurting melon.

Letting his hand drop back over his chest d'Artagnan stared at the ceiling. He was in the lounge, his back sore from having sprawled on the floor but at least there was a cushion under his head. This was turning into a trend he mused as he shifted his eyes to the side and came face to face with a furry black nose.

"Whoa what the –!" he scrambled up and away, kicking at the sudden fuzzy invader.

Invaders, his mind supplied as his eyes took in the sight of four stuffed toys that had until very recently been surrounding his head. Heart still going at a hundred miles per minute he glared at Rauol who had hopped down from the sofa.

"Uncle Charles are you okay?" the boy looked from him to his toys.

Swallowing to wet his suddenly dry throat he nodded at the boy and forced his breathing to calm down.

"What – what were they doing by my head?" he prided in the fact that his voice wasn't as shaky as he felt.

Raoul carefully collected each of his toy animals and set them gently on the sofa.

"You're hurt and you fell asleep," the boy smiled, "I told them to keep watch over you."

Feeling suddenly guilty d'Artagnan smiled at the child despite the pain it caused to his swollen face. He reached out and tugged him in a thank you hug before looking around the quiet hall. The bundle in his lap wriggled and got to his feet.

"They're in the kitchen," Raoul said.

"Where else would they be," he only refrained from rolling his eyes out of the fear of the pain it would cause him.

He followed the boy across the foyer, sniffing the sweet smell he had come to associate with comfort in too short a time span. He stopped in the kitchen doorway even as Raoul ran in. The boy was immediately picked up by Porthos who deposited him on his shoulders despite the slightly stiff way the big man moved between the stove and the island.

"d'Art! Still planning to go shoe shopping?" Porthos grinned.

He groaned and let his head drop to his chest as he trudged to sit beside Athos.

"Gentlemen leave him be," Athos spoke from beside him, "he's already suffering from an acute lack of boots,"

D'Artagnan glared at him.

"I hate you," he said.

"Here have a cupcake or a cookie," Aramis grinned from where he sat cross-legged on the island top, "Porthos has been baking and I helped,"

"Yeah, he helped himself to anything sweet and edible," Porthos said as he reached up to tweak at Raoul's ear.

The boy unsuccessfully tried to dodge his hand and settled with his chin in the man's curls. D'Artagnan winked at him as he dug into the cupcake thrust in his hand. The feast from the evening seemed to have disappeared and his stomach rumbled in appreciation of the food offered.

Aramis dusted the crumbs from his own face before he pulled close a bowl from near his knee.

"I can't believe that one isn't in favor of anything sweet," he looked pointedly at the child on his friend's shoulders.

Athos gave him a withering look as if there was no question that the boy would be more sensible than the man. Aramis shrugged and breaking off a piece of cupcake he wiped the cookie dough from the bowl he had pulled close. To d'Artagnan's horror the man actually ate the resulting glob.

"That is disgusting," it made him queasy even more than the pain from the stitches in his face.

"Porthos said I could lick the spoon,"

"And that is somehow a license for him to stick his face in every utensil used to make cookies," Athos said.

"I didn't stick my face in every utensil," Aramis tipped the bowl he had been wiping clean in d'Artagnan's direction with an all too earnest face, "it was only this one," he said.

D'Artagnan was torn between laughing and assuring his friend that he believed him. It didn't help when Athos took a sip of juice from the glass in his hand and fixed a dry glare onto his friend.

"If you get food poisoning from this I'm dumping you in the bathroom and locking the door after," he said.

D'Artagnan laughed.

Chocked on a piece of cupcake and coughed until he wheezed.

Porthos helpfully handed him a glass of juice.

"I won't," Aramis patted his stomach, "I can digest anything,"

"I distinctly remember you not being able to digest anything that one time,"

"It was the stomach bug you gave us," Porthos confiscated the bowl of cookie dough.

Aramis made a grab for it but Athos swatted his hands away, not really looking at his indignant friend as he arched a brow in Porthos' direction.

"You took that bug from me," he said.

"We were only providing well intentioned company," said the big man.

"I was spewing out food; I didn't want the company,"

"Aww Athos, but you needed it," Aramis grinned.

Athos looke from Porthos to Aramis, his lips twitched into a fond smile he couldn't quite seem to keep in check.

"Masochistic idiots," he said.

"Athos!" Porthos covered the young ears above his head; his eyes were bright with humour even as he pointedly rolled them up as if there was a need to be reminded of the boy grinning in his hair.

"My apologies," Athos tipped his head, "it seems I'm suffering from bad company,"

"Careful my friend, I have a sticky ladle and I'm not afraid to use it," Aramis wriggled the makeshift weapon at him.

"Touch me with that and I'll break your fingers,"

"It's not fair if you tempt me Athos,"

Porthos plucked the wooden ladle from his friend's grasp before it could cause any damage and tilting it to the light he looked at it closely.

"I said you could lick the spoon but I see teeth marks on it;" he looked to the man on the kitchen island, "do we need to get you chew toys?"

"Nah I'll share with the pup." Aramis shrugged.

"At least our boots will be safe," Athos nodded, "d'Art will never eat boots,"

D'Artagnan let go a long suffering groan even as a smile threatened to break on his face.

As much as it annoyed him that they would apparently not let slide his medicine induced ramblings to his surprise that he liked it. He had always known that pain medications never sat well with him and with the life he had lived he had been afraid of that weakness. But now he knew that in those moments when he had little defense his friends would watch out for him. And the teasing after that was simply like coming back home.

For the first time since he had known these men he couldn't find it in himself to protest that he was not a puppy. Instead he huffed and glared at the three of them.

"I was under the influence," he said.

"Speaking of that, when's your next dose?" Porthos asked entirely too innocently.

"I'm not taking any more," he said, "not unless I'm able to lock myself in my room."

"You used to be fun d'Art," Aramis sighed in mock heartbreak.

Catching the cookie the man threw at him d'Artagnan popped it in his mouth and looked about the kitchen.

"Where's Constance?" he asked.

"She went to check on Senora Rosa and the children since Senor Alvaro went back to the city." Athos told him.

He couldn't help the way his eyes trailed to the door at his brother's words. The fear of losing the woman he loved was still fresh under his skin and her absence was only adding to it. If he closed his eyes he could still see the men grabbing Constance, his hand curled into a fist on the counter top just thinking about it.

"And what are you waiting for?" Athos asked him.

He looked to the man beside him and didn't miss the fond spark in the blue eyes fixed on him. Athos quirked a brow and tilted his head a bit towards the door. D'Artagnan grinned and hopped to his feet, catching his brother in a surprise hug.

"I'm glad I found you," he whispered and drew away before Athos could so much as raise his arms.

He left the kitchen with the sound of his brothers' teasing echoing out to him. Shaking his head he stepped into the foyer and found Constance coming in. D'Artagnan bounded up to her, grabbed her around the waist and ambushed her with a kiss.

When they broke apart Constance was smiling up at him and there was mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she held his gaze.

"I could get used to such a welcome," she said.

He surprised her with another kiss and when he pulled back it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers.

"I'd rather there's no need for a welcome," he smirked, "we could just always stay together."

Constance grinned at him.

"Senora Rosa wanted to know when we were getting married," she said, her eyes not leaving his, "I told her soon."

"Tonight?" he asked, "tomorrow?"

Constance withdrew a hand from the back of his neck and smacked him on the shoulder.

"This week?" he asked.

"Is there a reason why you're in such a hurry?" Constance cocked her head to the side.

He laughed softly and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I want to be able to introduce you as Mrs. D'Artagnan,"

For years his life had had only one purpose. He had done everything, planned every step in order to find his father's murderer and bring him to justice. Deep in his heart he had always imagined that there was nothing beyond him for that; that he would lead his life in the long pursuit and perish somewhere along the way.

But he hadn't counted on the help that had come his way in the form of Athos and his friends. And now with that put to rest there was life rolling out before his feet, a life that he was eager to share with the woman in his arms.

"Oh is that all?"

"And I've decided I want seven," he said.

"Seven what?" Constance frowned slightly.

"Seven kids," he told her in an excited hurry, "I want seven of them, running about the house and filling it up."

His childhood had been quiet and he had never felt the aching need for siblings until he had met the three friends who seemed to have known each other all their lives. He felt lucky to have been accepted in their circle but wanted his children to have that right from the start.

And he didn't want to be the only d'Artagnan anymore.

"Did you just take your pain meds?" Constance asked seriously.

He shook his head and pulled her close.

Once upon a time he had believed that he had lost everything that he possibly could and even his own life hadn't mattered in the scheme of things, when the only driving force had been his purpose. D'Artagnan held Constance close as his mind wandered back to the despair he had felt at his father's death, it rose in a wave and washed away the lingering anger in his heart that he hadn't even realized was there.

He blinked to clear the wet burning in his eyes as he suddenly understood where Aramis had been coming from during his suicidal last stand before his father and it humbled him to see that he was the purpose compelling his friend on.

He looked down when Constance pushed away from him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

He smiled.

"Never been better," he said.

* * *

The farmhouse was quiet.

He had been staring at the ceiling for a while now.

With a defeated shake of his head Porthos swung his legs over the edge of the bed and switched on the lamp on his bedside table. The wound on his back was a dull ache but it pulled when he sat forward as he rubbed a hand over his face and through his tight curls. The need that had woken him up in the first place pushed him to his feet and out of his room.

Closing the door behind him he turned around and stilled. An exasperated smile curled on his face at the sight of Athos standing in the corridor.

His friend seemed to be in corundum as he hesitated in front of the door to Aramis' room. Rolling his eyes Porthos joined his friend and pushed open the door. The room was thrown into darkness and for a second Porthos wondered if his friend was asleep.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he noticed that the bed was empty. He turned to Athos when the man nudged him in the shoulder and followed his friend's gaze to the figure sitting on the floor at the end of the bed.

He was wearing Porthos' own threadbare black shirt and the olive pajama pants dotted with black cats that Athos had bought for him as a part of a dare several years back. Porthos sighed quietly; he had had a feeling it was going to be one of those nights, the two of them were seeking each other's company after all.

As they went over to their friend Aramis turned to them, wiping hastily at his face. He didn't succeed in clearing the evidence of tear tracks that glistened on his face in the pale moonlight filtering in from the window. Yet he smiled when they took flopped down on either side of him.

Neither of them said a word as they sat staring at nothing at all, leaning back against the bed with their shoulders pressed together.

Some nights in their lives had waned like that.

Some nights there had been liquor to grease the time to move along.

Porthos mused it must have taken root in their years together in boarding, so that when the calm of their lives was disturbed too much they would seek the familiar presence of the other two. Like leaves riding ripples on the surface of water, they'd spin until joint with the others.

It was hours later when Aramis wiped his face again and dropped his head back over the bed. But then he sat up abruptly.

"I've got something to show you," he stood up, "I can't believe I haven't shown you this."

Porthos shared a smile with Athos as their friend rummaged in the drawer of his bedside table. He picked up something dark that was bigger than his hand and hurried over to them.

"I found it in one of the boxes in her room," he said.

In his hand was an old camcorder, even in the dim light of the moon Porthos could tell that the hard plastic surface was chipped and cracked. So was the lens at the end of it. But Aramis was holding it like it was the most precious prize he had ever come across.

"Does it work?" Athos asked quietly.

Aramis nodded.

"The cassette was still in there," he said.

Pulling open the small screen he switched it to play with an ease that told them their friend had done it often.

On the small screen appeared a child who seemed to be around a year old and looked like he carried half his weight in his hair. But it was the grin on the child's face that Porthos would recognize anywhere.

"That's it hijo mio, come to mama," came a woman's voice.

The small boy let go of the table he had been clutching and took a wobbly step.

"Come to mama mi bendicion desde Aramits,"

"What's going on here?"

"Rene you have to –"

The screen shook violently, catching the carpet and the ceiling in a blur.

"I told you not to –"

And the video broke off into a blue screen.

Porthos didn't move as he looked at his friend from the corner of his eye. By the grin he could see on his brother's face he knew that the anger coiling in his gut would be misplaced. He was quietly thankful when Athos cleared his throat.

"That was –"

"Great isn't it," Aramis turned to him, "I mean I have seen pictures of her but this –" he clutched the camcorder in both hands, "this holds a part of her."

Aramis looked from Athos to Porthos.

"It just proves that she was real," his eyes dropped to the object in his hand, "I won't know what she looked like if I hadn't seen her pictures. The only clear memory I have of her is her voice and this proves that my memory is real. That I knew her."

"There's no doubt that you did," Athos said.

But they knew that when they had met their friend his mother was already dead and the boy had been no more than five years old. Any memory of the woman that his mind would've been able to retain would have been blocked out by the trauma.

His anger dissipating, Porthos threw an arm across Aramis' shoulders and pulled him close.

"Did I hear her call you Aramis?" he asked.

"Mi bendicion desde Aramits," his brother repeated, "My blessing from Aramits; I think she must have called me that often to have it stuck in my mind."

"She gave you the name then," Athos' arm came over Porthos, "suits you better then Rene,"

Aramis grinned and leaned into them, shivering slightly. Porthos shared a look with Athos over the man between them and knew he wasn't the only one who had found his balance again. They were right were they were supposed to be, at each other's side.

He rolled his eyes even as a smile pulled at his face.

"We're in Spain in the middle of summer and you're cold," Porthos shook his head, "unbelievable."

Aramis pressed closer to him.

"And you're warm," he said, "Always warm like those blankets they wrap babies in."

Athos snorted.

"What're you amused about?" Porthos smirked, "You're the pillow in this ensemble."

* * *

 _ **Nine days later…**_

"I guess this is goodbye for now," Aramis drew a hand through his hair and looked down, "I promise I'll visit more; probably not as much as I visit Mrs. Du Vallon but even Athos visits her more often than he does his mother and his parents are alive."

The sunset had been beautiful, especially from the hill top; but now the darkness was falling faster than he had anticipated. Aramis looked up at the clear sky before his gaze fell on the flowers he had brought. The first time he had visited her hadn't even considered bringing her anything, just clambered up to her in search of relief for his pain.

But Senor Alvaro had told him that sunflowers were her favorite. He believed the man knew what he was talking about since he had shared his childhood with his mother on this very farm.

"Senor Alvaro said you'd come up to this spot to think," he looked over the expanse of olive trees and the red roofed building beyond, "distance is great at making everything smaller isn't it?"

His eyes drifted to the small group a little way off waiting for him on the dirt trail. They were studiously not looking his way as they teased d'Artagnan about his newfound love for a horse.

Aramis' smile grew.

"But some things can't be diminished," he shook his head, "So you don't need to worry about me. I'll find my way and I don't have to do it alone; never had to."

He bent to place the flowers by the headstone and said a little prayer for the mother he loved despite the short time he had had with her. When he turned back, the others they had already mounted the horses. The thinly veiled concern in their eyes warmed his heart and Aramis knew it would be alright. He may still have ways to go in defining who he was but he would always know who he was to these people.

He was their brother and that was enough.

Enough to spark his ashes and help him rise again.

* * *

" _ **The most dangerous word in any human tongue is the word for brother. It's inflammatory." –Tennessee Williams  
**_

* * *

 **END.**


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